So much privilege here. It's hard to take it in.
Living in medieval times when things are so cool and not garbage hell time.
Not like we all have worms and deformities.
What's a book? Not even invented yet.
Privilege, homey. Poor? Missing important parts of our legs? Don't matter, chicks dig these fresh privs.
Ah, bloody hell, my horse is dyin'. Not gonna have this horse anymore.
Well done on all this privilege though.
It's too much to even tally up. At least 20 horses of privilege if I had to suss it out.
And then, you know what, we're gonna eat this horse too. Chuffed for it. Really it's all privilege, lads.
Ahhhhhhh not there. My privilege isn't there. You're never going to find it, no matter how many days you peck around in my guts. That's the difference between me and you, bird. I've got it and you want it.
Jealous? Ya jealous, y'all? Y'all girls jealous?
I think ya jealous.
The beard, the bod, the drapes, I got it all.
P*R*I*V*I*L*E*G*E in piles y'all. It's unreal.
Aye, Carumba! I have thiiiiiiis much privilege.
Honestly it is just too much privilege. I cannot even cope with the amount.
Even now, my friends, as you are about to shoot a frenzy of bullets into my lovely shirt, I am looking down a collar at a woman's breast. That is my amount of privilege coupled with very good night sight.
All the wealth and power and I have constructed a citadel of misery from my madness?
Neeewwwwwp. Think again.
I am in Fort Privilege.
We do whatever we want here, like put kitchen flooring on the walls.
But no girls allowed, am I right, Ivan?
I have raised over $300 participating in quilting bees for the American Quilting Bee Society so I think I deserve at least seven minutes of your time.
Ernest Cline, writer of Ready Player One, shares his newest poem.
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