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    Path-dependent conformation bias

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    Your Bunnygodhutmakerdowntoearthmichael finds himself in such a conceptual crisis in this somewhat absurd 2020 play. I certainly do not need to explain the above title and its implications to an enlightened, well-educated European like you, as it would most likely be of no use to measure my personal school dropout inability to learn and lack of experience in almost everything with your highly developed psychologically free-acting ethical and civic-balanced intelligence.

    This one can only fail because of this, and in this sense this Blog collapses lonely and immorally irradiated, even if he is sometimes given the honor of being visited by sweet-tasting hope in the form of a woman, but then at the first sign of dissatisfaction with the range of services offered by the hope-disappointing but not lover, he is replaced or even felt to be in need of repair and leaves to continue to care for his thing. in intimate

    Hundred Acre Wood Apathy

    It is good and right to quietly and modestly tow the servant. You, lonely, silent love-addict, meaningless existence, who do you want to tell what the matter is that you do not belong to? That would not be Zen and not hacking, that would be the unimaginative failure of a welfare recipient. A sad sea of tears of the unwanted.

    Where do we comb hair, Chief Schütter? A silverfish catcher on caffeine. That's all that's left of you after Isabella.

    The fact that you still dare to give your madness a face, to present your kind of brood not only to a posterity that never knew about you, that you care that revolutions not only pop up but greedily click their tongues in their entropic flickering joy, that should perhaps be credited to you one day, when it comes to the compound interest of the new age, before civilization comes to an end, and the influencer called Peinlichbin gives the last days of humanity the literary walking knowledge that is necessary to think clearly before taking photographs or speaking.

    Copying doesn't help anymore, my de-googled consumer idiot sperm, the functional uselessness of your dopamine-driven soon-to-be barely distinguishable from your appearance requires the ability of empathic authenticity.

    You are the product of a Rome, an Apple Planet, an empty lie of what can never be. In a final stand and lashing of dysfunctional cavemen and tribal morality, your unjustified smile and shameless refusal of solidarity is your unique selling point in a universe of reciprocity, of dancing together.

    If it is possible for everyone and not already before.

    Invoking the asteroid that will enlighten and re-enact all this, the author's art is but a stab at what one thinks one can touch, the human flaw we so readily attribute value to, the imperfection of the excuse, but I digress.

    The debate here is how to integrate hat making into a society that neither understands nor accepts it without losing any of its integrity.

    The main characteristic of modern man is his spineless, servile banality.

    In an endless spectacle of mass-conforming nonchalance, people are eyed, marveled at, applauded and stunned when rebels sometimes appear like angels and have their backs broken and compressed before everyone's eyes.

    What you are, human, resembles a bestial runt, sprouting fruit bodies on characterless brown. And you like lying to yourself even when it's time again to blame those up there for your sloppy family satisfaction, regardless of how others are doing. You have been given something really great, you have more potential than everything around you and your response to this shimmer of beauty is endless horror and its endless self-deceptive acceptance.

    And it is the mothers who raise us to think about it. If the man is blamed, which he undoubtedly is.

    A frying pan overheated after a goodnight fuck. Made of wrought iron. You could have always solved it, since the beginning of time.

    The frying pan revolt

    Think of it like a computer game. Super Maria. Boing, Mr. President. Poing, dear Iman. But also in the small, subtle citizen's dick trauma. Back to the matriarchy.

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