As I'm out and about, the first thing people notice when they glance my way is the enormous four ton weight atop my broken body. I get it. We are, by our very nature, superficial creatures. But there's so much more to me than the classic black iron trapezoid with a handle and the words "4 Tons" printed in bold white letters on its side.
Look a little closer.
See that I am also a hand peeking out from under the weight, palm up to the sky, twisted fingers strained and twitching.
Circle the weight until you reach the opposite corner and see that I am also a foot inside a shoe, pressed as flat as a sheet of paper and squeezed out from a spot where you wouldn't think a foot would be. Curiously, there is nothing graphic about the visual. It's just a two dimensional white sneaker with red trim, perfectly preserved and stretched out five times as wide as it once was.
Listen long enough and you will eventually hear that I am a voice, small and uncertain, saying, "Oh man this four ton weight is pretty heavy."
Basically, I'm just like you.
I have my inner doubts and regrets. At my lowest, when I am alone at night with my thoughts and the long silence in the ruins of my collapsed bed, I allow myself to relive that fateful day and kick myself for not paying more attention to the sign:
If I had known the weight cost nearly two thousand dollars, I would have never allowed myself to be crushed by it.
I also have hopes, just as you do.
It is my dream that if I work hard and apply myself, I can remove this terrible four ton weight from my body, and replace it with a brand new two ton weight.
This libtard terminator keeps asking for guns that don't exist and I may have to close early out of frustration.
Editor's Note: Due to a freak power outage, this obituary of Barbara Bush was written without the benefit of research. In order to pay our respects to this great woman in a timely fashion, we have decided to post this piece as-is. We hope you forgive any errors on our part.
My game is funded. Now I know everything.
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