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My foreign exchange face is hardly coupled with the atomic rate of passersby, as they slither into a lesser state of monochromatic corkscrew cheese fascination with no crash helmet. To speak into that hole is to hold your own crisis prevention meeting on top of a penny and hope that nearby robots either weren’t listening or don’t care. Mine in time will be the nothing-face that shatters your cubicle supreme hostess eliminator, forcing the ranks back two or three notches until dairy products have no choice but to eat their own wardrobe and cough it up later.
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