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Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t take sweets from strangers. Don’t get into creepy white vans with strangers.
Spazzy murderous rabbit child.
Suck it, genetics.
Meet Charlotte Walker, everyone. Calm, cool, collected, and definitely not having a mental breakdown.
My brain seems to have this issue where it doesn’t... you know... work.
Just because I don't enjoy consuming disgustingly cheap beer does not mean that I'm a bloody stick-in-the-mud.
I suppose it’s only fitting that this is how I die: surrounded by my parents’ disapproving expressions, trying desperately not to strangle Drool Boy, and choking on my own saliva.
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