my ego is nothing more than an invisible eggo covered in freshly tapped maple streams, and whipped topping goodiness that makes me love my homies. so word up to the internet cheetos. and i would ask her out, in a second's second hand move, if my table wasn't already place mat and sat at, while the smiths burn gently in my ear. (that's smith to you, mister anderson)
i do have addiction to this place, so believe nothing that i say when it comes to rants and reels of fitting squeals that i admit to. there is always a place for us to be in here. just where are those golden girls when i need them?