Actual insufficiency is how we describe your every situation.

 

So is your avatar like your fursona or what?

 

At least I don't aspire to be a shit Mr. Peanut.

 

The most notable thing about you is what TPT just said above

 

So I sat down for a bit and tried to think of a proper insult for ya, but then I remembered that you're Polish and my work was already done.

 

Given how often you agree with me, some would say my work has been done for a while

 

It's great that our community is one where our members don't have to hide their sexual attraction to mooses.

 

Or that they're Australian

 

We have a cadre of Polish people living around here. To a man they're all sweaty, uncouth, greasy looking castoffs who represent the pure and distilled sweat from the back of the Soviet ballsack.

My question is, if the best examples of your people are over here, and with the Soviet distaste for deformities, why is a twisted cretin like yourself allowed to stay in the relatively comfortable familiarity of your shingle grey tower block?

 

Shut up, weeb.

 

Lamora is the kind of person who realises he has a well loved story to finish, panics, and joins the military to get away.

 

You're meant to insult me, go post that in the compliment thread you fucking hack.

I suppose I shouldn't expect better reading comprehension from someone who can't finish a story that's literally already been written. Maybe you should try to watch some anime and get some inspiration?

That way you can crank out another chapter, get a few likes and sustain your shadow shrouded masturbation for another eighteen months.

 

You've got the reading comprehension and typing speed of a sober Irishman.

 

How's it like to be a vegetable who writes wholly forgettable stories?

 

Imagine confusing Lungs for Lamora.

Imagine thinking tomatoes are a vegetable.

 

Imagine hallucinating posts that definitely weren't deleted one second after posting because my eyes are blurry from lack of sleep. -.-

 

I'm currently having a very painful shit and my legs are dead. The uncomfortable mix of burning and cramps are a shadow of the feeling every time I'm forced to interact with you Lungs. Your whole life is geared towards desperately trying to be cool when we all know you're just going to end up working in a laundromat and smoking 60 a day like every other forgettable Asian in America.

 

Your dick is a magikarp.

 

I still don't know who you are.

 

That's only to be expected; news travels slowly to the remote, simple corners of the world.