>>509918392
Why yes, it's me again.
The successful one. The powerful one.
The man with multiple streams of income, a paid-off mortgage, a private pension, and a wife from a wealthy bloodline that guarantees me a quarter-million-pound inheritance within two decades—if I don’t spontaneously combust from fixating on a Tumblr post first.

Some men enjoy wine. Others enjoy horses.
Me? I enjoy sifting through random British IPs at 2AM trying to figure out if one of them is Josh.

Let me tell you, there's no greater thrill than reverse image searching Co-op stock photos to prove a man I hate bought his groceries. It's not obsession. It's aristocracy. This is what the gentry do.

I log my staff's hours by day.
I fantasise about a fat NEET’s sexual trauma by night.
I am, in every way, the epitome of high society.

Did I mention I'm not even mad?
I mean sure, I’ve mentioned Josh by name over 200 times, implied he was raped by his grandad, projected hereditary schizophrenia onto him, and claimed he's melting down despite not even being in the thread—but trust me, I’m cool.
Normal people always post in vertical text to spell “SAD CUNT.”

You see, while Josh writes fluid essays, dismantles narratives, and reverse-baits me into exposing my own disturbed inner world, I’m the one actually winning.
Because I once politely turned down free tits from a drunk woman.
That’s the measure of a man.
It’s all very rational.
Like a spreadsheet.
If the spreadsheet was drawn in blood and semen on the wall of a Section 136 holding cell.

At the end of the day, I’m just doing my duty:
Monitoring forums for the fat autistic man who lives rent-free in my endocrine system.
Stalking his alternate Tumblr accounts.
Staring at his online LARPs like they’re sacred runes.

Because nothing screams well-adjusted, happily married aristocrat like writing nightly fanfiction about Josh being raped as a child.

Why yes, it's me again.
The successful one. The powerful one.
The man with multiple streams of income, a paid-off mortgage, a private pension, and a wife from a wealthy bloodline that guarantees me a quarter-million-pound inheritance within two decades—if I don’t spontaneously combust from fixating on a Tumblr post first.

Some men enjoy wine. Others enjoy horses.
Me? I enjoy sifting through random British IPs at 2AM trying to figure out if one of them is Josh.

Let me tell you, there's no greater thrill than reverse image searching Co-op stock photos to prove a man I hate bought his groceries. It's not obsession. It's aristocracy. This is what the gentry do.

I log my staff's hours by day.
I fantasise about a fat NEET’s sexual trauma by night.
I am, in every way, the epitome of high society.

Did I mention I'm not even mad?
I mean sure, I’ve mentioned Josh by name over 200 times, implied he was raped by his grandad, projected hereditary schizophrenia onto him, and claimed he's melting down despite not even being in the thread—but trust me, I’m cool.
Normal people always post in vertical text to spell “SAD CUNT.”

You see, while Josh writes fluid essays, dismantles narratives, and reverse-baits me into exposing my own disturbed inner world, I’m the one actually winning.
Because I once politely turned down free tits from a drunk woman.
That’s the measure of a man.
It’s all very rational.
Like a spreadsheet.
If the spreadsheet was drawn in blood and semen on the wall of a Section 136 holding cell.

At the end of the day, I’m just doing my duty:
Monitoring forums for the fat autistic man who lives rent-free in my endocrine system.
Stalking his alternate Tumblr accounts.
Staring at his online LARPs like they’re sacred runes.

Because nothing screams well-adjusted, happily married aristocrat like writing nightly fanfiction about Josh being raped as a child.

Why yes, it's me again.
The successful one. The powerful one.
The man with multiple streams of income, a paid-off mortgage, a private pension, and a wife from a wealthy bloodline that guarantees me a quarter-million-pound inheritance within two decades—if I don’t spontaneously combust from fixating on a Tumblr post first.

Some men enjoy wine. Others enjoy horses.
Me? I enjoy sifting through random British IPs at 2AM trying to figure out if one of them is Josh.

Let me tell you, there's no greater thrill than reverse image searching Co-op stock photos to prove a man I hate bought his groceries. It's not obsession. It's aristocracy. This is what the gentry do.

I log my staff's hours by day.
I fantasise about a fat NEET’s sexual trauma by night.
I am, in every way, the epitome of high society.

Did I mention I'm not even mad?
I mean sure, I’ve mentioned Josh by name over 200 times, implied he was raped by his grandad, projected hereditary schizophrenia onto him, and claimed he's melting down despite not even being in the thread—but trust me, I’m cool.
Normal people always post in vertical text to spell “SAD CUNT.”

You see, while Josh writes fluid essays, dismantles narratives, and reverse-baits me into exposing my own disturbed inner world, I’m the one actually winning.
Because I once politely turned down free tits from a drunk woman.
That’s the measure of a man.
It’s all very rational.
Like a spreadsheet.
If the spreadsheet was drawn in blood and semen on the wall of a Section 136 holding cell.

At the end of the day, I’m just doing my duty:
Monitoring forums for the fat autistic man who lives rent-free in my endocrine system.
Stalking his alternate Tumblr accounts.
Staring at his online LARPs like they’re sacred runes.

Because nothing screams well-adjusted, happily married aristocrat like writing nightly fanfiction about Josh being raped as a child.

Why yes, it's me again.
The successful one. The powerful one.
The man with multiple streams of income, a paid-off mortgage, a private pension, and a wife from a wealthy bloodline that guarantees me a quarter-million-pound inheritance within two decades—if I don’t spontaneously combust from fixating on a Tumblr post first.

Some men enjoy wine. Others enjoy horses.
Me? I enjoy sifting through random British IPs at 2AM trying to figure out if one of them is Josh.

Let me tell you, there's no greater thrill than reverse image searching Co-op stock photos to prove a man I hate bought his groceries. It's not obsession. It's aristocracy. This is what the gentry do.

I log my staff's hours by day.
I fantasise about a fat NEET’s sexual trauma by night.
I am, in every way, the epitome of high society.

Did I mention I'm not even mad?
I mean sure, I’ve mentioned Josh by name over 200 times, implied he was raped by his grandad, projected hereditary schizophrenia onto him, and claimed he's melting down despite not even being in the thread—but trust me, I’m cool.
Normal people always post in vertical text to spell “SAD CUNT.”

You see, while Josh writes fluid essays, dismantles narratives, and reverse-baits me into exposing my own disturbed inner world, I’m the one actually winning.
Because I once politely turned down free tits from a drunk woman.
That’s the measure of a man.
It’s all very rational.
Like a spreadsheet.
If the spreadsheet was drawn in blood and semen on the wall of a Section 136 holding cell.

At the end of the day, I’m just doing my duty:
Monitoring forums for the fat autistic man who lives rent-free in my endocrine system.
Stalking his alternate Tumblr accounts.
Staring at his online LARPs like they’re sacred runes.

Because nothing screams well-adjusted, happily married aristocrat like writing nightly fanfiction about Josh being raped as a child.

Why yes, it's me again.
The successful one. The powerful one.
The man with multiple streams of income, a paid-off mortgage, a private pension, and a wife from a wealthy bloodline that guarantees me a quarter-million-pound inheritance within two decades—if I don’t spontaneously combust from fixating on a Tumblr post first.

Some men enjoy wine. Others enjoy horses.
Me? I enjoy sifting through random British IPs at 2AM trying to figure out if one of them is Josh.

Let me tell you, there's no greater thrill than reverse image searching Co-op stock photos to prove a man I hate bought his groceries. It's not obsession. It's aristocracy. This is what the gentry do.

I log my staff's hours by day.
I fantasise about a fat NEET’s sexual trauma by night.
I am, in every way, the epitome of high society.

Did I mention I'm not even mad?
I mean sure, I’ve mentioned Josh by name over 200 times, implied he was raped by his grandad, projected hereditary schizophrenia onto him, and claimed he's melting down despite not even being in the thread—but trust me, I’m cool.
Normal people always post in vertical text to spell “SAD CUNT.”

You see, while Josh writes fluid essays, dismantles narratives, and reverse-baits me into exposing my own disturbed inner world, I’m the one actually winning.
Because I once politely turned down free tits from a drunk woman.
That’s the measure of a man.
It’s all very rational.
Like a spreadsheet.
If the spreadsheet was drawn in blood and semen on the wall of a Section 136 holding cell.

At the end of the day, I’m just doing my duty:
Monitoring forums for the fat autistic man who lives rent-free in my endocrine system.
Stalking his alternate Tumblr accounts.
Staring at his online LARPs like they’re sacred runes.

Because nothing screams well-adjusted, happily married aristocrat like writing nightly fanfiction about Josh being raped as a child.

Why yes, it's me again.
The successful one. The powerful one.
The man with multiple streams of income, a paid-off mortgage, a private pension, and a wife from a wealthy bloodline that guarantees me a quarter-million-pound inheritance within two decades—if I don’t spontaneously combust from fixating on a Tumblr post first.

Some men enjoy wine. Others enjoy horses.
Me? I enjoy sifting through random British IPs at 2AM trying to figure out if one of them is Josh.

Let me tell you, there's no greater thrill than reverse image searching Co-op stock photos to prove a man I hate bought his groceries. It's not obsession. It's aristocracy. This is what the gentry do.

I log my staff's hours by day.
I fantasise about a fat NEET’s sexual trauma by night.
I am, in every way, the epitome of high society.

Did I mention I'm not even mad?
I mean sure, I’ve mentioned Josh by name over 200 times, implied he was raped by his grandad, projected hereditary schizophrenia onto him, and claimed he's melting down despite not even being in the thread—but trust me, I’m cool.
Normal people always post in vertical text to spell “SAD CUNT.”

You see, while Josh writes fluid essays, dismantles narratives, and reverse-baits me into exposing my own disturbed inner world, I’m the one actually winning.
Because I once politely turned down free tits from a drunk woman.
That’s the measure of a man.
It’s all very rational.
Like a spreadsheet.
If the spreadsheet was drawn in blood and semen on the wall of a Section 136 holding cell.

At the end of the day, I’m just doing my duty:
Monitoring forums for the fat autistic man who lives rent-free in my endocrine system.
Stalking his alternate Tumblr accounts.
Staring at his online LARPs like they’re sacred runes.

Because nothing screams well-adjusted, happily married aristocrat like writing nightly fanfiction about Josh being raped as a child.

>>508300366
Why yes, it's me again.
The successful one. The powerful one.
The man with multiple streams of income, a paid-off mortgage, a private pension, and a wife from a wealthy bloodline that guarantees me a quarter-million-pound inheritance within two decades—if I don’t spontaneously combust from fixating on a Tumblr post first.

Some men enjoy wine. Others enjoy horses.
Me? I enjoy sifting through random British IPs at 2AM trying to figure out if one of them is Josh.

Let me tell you, there's no greater thrill than reverse image searching Co-op stock photos to prove a man I hate bought his groceries. It's not obsession. It's aristocracy. This is what the gentry do.

I log my staff's hours by day.
I fantasise about a fat NEET’s sexual trauma by night.
I am, in every way, the epitome of high society.

Did I mention I'm not even mad?
I mean sure, I’ve mentioned Josh by name over 200 times, implied he was raped by his grandad, projected hereditary schizophrenia onto him, and claimed he's melting down despite not even being in the thread—but trust me, I’m cool.
Normal people always post in vertical text to spell “SAD CUNT.”

You see, while Josh writes fluid essays, dismantles narratives, and reverse-baits me into exposing my own disturbed inner world, I’m the one actually winning.
Because I once politely turned down free tits from a drunk woman.
That’s the measure of a man.
It’s all very rational.
Like a spreadsheet.
If the spreadsheet was drawn in blood and semen on the wall of a Section 136 holding cell.

At the end of the day, I’m just doing my duty:
Monitoring forums for the fat autistic man who lives rent-free in my endocrine system.
Stalking his alternate Tumblr accounts.
Staring at his online LARPs like they’re sacred runes.

Because nothing screams well-adjusted, happily married aristocrat like writing nightly fanfiction about Josh being raped as a child.

Why yes, it's me again.
The successful one. The powerful one.
The man with multiple streams of income, a paid-off mortgage, a private pension, and a wife from a wealthy bloodline that guarantees me a quarter-million-pound inheritance within two decades—if I don’t spontaneously combust from fixating on a Tumblr post first.

Some men enjoy wine. Others enjoy horses.
Me? I enjoy sifting through random British IPs at 2AM trying to figure out if one of them is Josh.

Let me tell you, there's no greater thrill than reverse image searching Co-op stock photos to prove a man I hate bought his groceries. It's not obsession. It's aristocracy. This is what the gentry do.

I log my staff's hours by day.
I fantasise about a fat NEET’s sexual trauma by night.
I am, in every way, the epitome of high society.

Did I mention I'm not even mad?
I mean sure, I’ve mentioned Josh by name over 200 times, implied he was raped by his grandad, projected hereditary schizophrenia onto him, and claimed he's melting down despite not even being in the thread—but trust me, I’m cool.
Normal people always post in vertical text to spell “SAD CUNT.”

You see, while Josh writes fluid essays, dismantles narratives, and reverse-baits me into exposing my own disturbed inner world, I’m the one actually winning.
Because I once politely turned down free tits from a drunk woman.
That’s the measure of a man.
It’s all very rational.
Like a spreadsheet.
If the spreadsheet was drawn in blood and semen on the wall of a Section 136 holding cell.

At the end of the day, I’m just doing my duty:
Monitoring forums for the fat autistic man who lives rent-free in my endocrine system.
Stalking his alternate Tumblr accounts.
Staring at his online LARPs like they’re sacred runes.

Because nothing screams well-adjusted, happily married aristocrat like writing nightly fanfiction about Josh being raped as a child.

Why yes, it's me again.
The successful one. The powerful one.
The man with multiple streams of income, a paid-off mortgage, a private pension, and a wife from a wealthy bloodline that guarantees me a quarter-million-pound inheritance within two decades—if I don’t spontaneously combust from fixating on a Tumblr post first.

Some men enjoy wine. Others enjoy horses.
Me? I enjoy sifting through random British IPs at 2AM trying to figure out if one of them is Josh.

Let me tell you, there's no greater thrill than reverse image searching Co-op stock photos to prove a man I hate bought his groceries. It's not obsession. It's aristocracy. This is what the gentry do.

I log my staff's hours by day.
I fantasise about a fat NEET’s sexual trauma by night.
I am, in every way, the epitome of high society.

Did I mention I'm not even mad?
I mean sure, I’ve mentioned Josh by name over 200 times, implied he was raped by his grandad, projected hereditary schizophrenia onto him, and claimed he's melting down despite not even being in the thread—but trust me, I’m cool.
Normal people always post in vertical text to spell “SAD CUNT.”

You see, while Josh writes fluid essays, dismantles narratives, and reverse-baits me into exposing my own disturbed inner world, I’m the one actually winning.
Because I once politely turned down free tits from a drunk woman.
That’s the measure of a man.
It’s all very rational.
Like a spreadsheet.
If the spreadsheet was drawn in blood and semen on the wall of a Section 136 holding cell.

At the end of the day, I’m just doing my duty:
Monitoring forums for the fat autistic man who lives rent-free in my endocrine system.
Stalking his alternate Tumblr accounts.
Staring at his online LARPs like they’re sacred runes.

Because nothing screams well-adjusted, happily married aristocrat like writing nightly fanfiction about Josh being raped as a child.

Why yes, it's me again.
The successful one. The powerful one.
The man with multiple streams of income, a paid-off mortgage, a private pension, and a wife from a wealthy bloodline that guarantees me a quarter-million-pound inheritance within two decades—if I don’t spontaneously combust from fixating on a Tumblr post first.

Some men enjoy wine. Others enjoy horses.
Me? I enjoy sifting through random British IPs at 2AM trying to figure out if one of them is Josh.

Let me tell you, there's no greater thrill than reverse image searching Co-op stock photos to prove a man I hate bought his groceries. It's not obsession. It's aristocracy. This is what the gentry do.

I log my staff's hours by day.
I fantasise about a fat NEET’s sexual trauma by night.
I am, in every way, the epitome of high society.

Did I mention I'm not even mad?
I mean sure, I’ve mentioned Josh by name over 200 times, implied he was raped by his grandad, projected hereditary schizophrenia onto him, and claimed he's melting down despite not even being in the thread—but trust me, I’m cool.
Normal people always post in vertical text to spell “SAD CUNT.”

You see, while Josh writes fluid essays, dismantles narratives, and reverse-baits me into exposing my own disturbed inner world, I’m the one actually winning.
Because I once politely turned down free tits from a drunk woman.
That’s the measure of a man.
It’s all very rational.
Like a spreadsheet.
If the spreadsheet was drawn in blood and semen on the wall of a Section 136 holding cell.

At the end of the day, I’m just doing my duty:
Monitoring forums for the fat autistic man who lives rent-free in my endocrine system.
Stalking his alternate Tumblr accounts.
Staring at his online LARPs like they’re sacred runes.

Because nothing screams well-adjusted, happily married aristocrat like writing nightly fanfiction about Josh being raped as a child.

Why yes, it's me again.
The successful one. The powerful one.
The man with multiple streams of income, a paid-off mortgage, a private pension, and a wife from a wealthy bloodline that guarantees me a quarter-million-pound inheritance within two decades—if I don’t spontaneously combust from fixating on a Tumblr post first.

Some men enjoy wine. Others enjoy horses.
Me? I enjoy sifting through random British IPs at 2AM trying to figure out if one of them is Josh.

Let me tell you, there's no greater thrill than reverse image searching Co-op stock photos to prove a man I hate bought his groceries. It's not obsession. It's aristocracy. This is what the gentry do.

I log my staff's hours by day.
I fantasise about a fat NEET’s sexual trauma by night.
I am, in every way, the epitome of high society.

Did I mention I'm not even mad?
I mean sure, I’ve mentioned Josh by name over 200 times, implied he was raped by his grandad, projected hereditary schizophrenia onto him, and claimed he's melting down despite not even being in the thread—but trust me, I’m cool.
Normal people always post in vertical text to spell “SAD CUNT.”

You see, while Josh writes fluid essays, dismantles narratives, and reverse-baits me into exposing my own disturbed inner world, I’m the one actually winning.
Because I once politely turned down free tits from a drunk woman.
That’s the measure of a man.
It’s all very rational.
Like a spreadsheet.
If the spreadsheet was drawn in blood and semen on the wall of a Section 136 holding cell.

At the end of the day, I’m just doing my duty:
Monitoring forums for the fat autistic man who lives rent-free in my endocrine system.
Stalking his alternate Tumblr accounts.
Staring at his online LARPs like they’re sacred runes.

Because nothing screams well-adjusted, happily married aristocrat like writing nightly fanfiction about Josh being raped as a child.

Why yes, it's me again.
The successful one. The powerful one.
The man with multiple streams of income, a paid-off mortgage, a private pension, and a wife from a wealthy bloodline that guarantees me a quarter-million-pound inheritance within two decades—if I don’t spontaneously combust from fixating on a Tumblr post first.

Some men enjoy wine. Others enjoy horses.
Me? I enjoy sifting through random British IPs at 2AM trying to figure out if one of them is Josh.

Let me tell you, there's no greater thrill than reverse image searching Co-op stock photos to prove a man I hate bought his groceries. It's not obsession. It's aristocracy. This is what the gentry do.

I log my staff's hours by day.
I fantasise about a fat NEET’s sexual trauma by night.
I am, in every way, the epitome of high society.

Did I mention I'm not even mad?
I mean sure, I’ve mentioned Josh by name over 200 times, implied he was raped by his grandad, projected hereditary schizophrenia onto him, and claimed he's melting down despite not even being in the thread—but trust me, I’m cool.
Normal people always post in vertical text to spell “SAD CUNT.”

You see, while Josh writes fluid essays, dismantles narratives, and reverse-baits me into exposing my own disturbed inner world, I’m the one actually winning.
Because I once politely turned down free tits from a drunk woman.
That’s the measure of a man.
It’s all very rational.
Like a spreadsheet.
If the spreadsheet was drawn in blood and semen on the wall of a Section 136 holding cell.

At the end of the day, I’m just doing my duty:
Monitoring forums for the fat autistic man who lives rent-free in my endocrine system.
Stalking his alternate Tumblr accounts.
Staring at his online LARPs like they’re sacred runes.

Because nothing screams well-adjusted, happily married aristocrat like writing nightly fanfiction about Josh being raped as a child.