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TeeHee Hairpill

Lv99_BixNood

Lv99_BixNood

fascel
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Nov 19, 2017
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:society:
 
even as someone 101% atheistic, I still think there is some meaning in saying that redditors have no soul
 
No hair for your chicken legs
 
Hair is cope, there's more important factors like height and NT
 
NO HAIR NO LIFE
LOOKS = LIFE
NO HAIR NO LIFE
LOOKS = LIFE
NO HAIR NO LIFE
LOOKS = LIFE
NO HAIR NO LIFE
LOOKS = LIFE
NO HAIR NO LIFE
LOOKS = LIFE
 
redditors being so willingly blind is so confusing to me
 
When women share their tastes it's so wholesome and empowering! When men do it it's evil and oppressive
 
Hair is cope, there's more important factors like height and NT
Baldpill

Doesn't matter how good looking you are, balding just makes you look subhuman. It's a sign of faulty genes.
 
The bitch is getting flashbacks? Why is it wrong with older men to ask a loli waifu out?
 
Hair doesn’t matter bro. My scalp is raw, oozing with thick, yellow-green pus that mixes with sticky mucus and crusted-over blood. I can feel it constantly weeping, the sores never drying, always slick and wet. Patches of skin have turned dark, almost black—dead flesh that smells like something rotting in the sun. Where hair once grew, there’s nothing now but slick, bald skin and scabbed-over wounds that sting and throb with every movement. I can feel the lice crawling, biting, nesting in the few damp patches that still have some fuzz. Worse, maggots wriggle beneath the surface, feeding on the decayed parts of me—I hear them sometimes, a soft squelching when I press down. Flies circle constantly, landing to feed and lay more eggs. Their buzzing is maddening. The smell is unbearable, like death clinging to me. It doesn’t feel like a scalp anymore. It feels like a festering swamp glued to my skull—alive, but not mine. But I date supermodels.
 
Very few men can pull off baldness. I don't think a psyop on women could change their minds on baldness.
 
Hair doesn’t matter bro. My scalp is raw, oozing with thick, yellow-green pus that mixes with sticky mucus and crusted-over blood. I can feel it constantly weeping, the sores never drying, always slick and wet. Patches of skin have turned dark, almost black—dead flesh that smells like something rotting in the sun. Where hair once grew, there’s nothing now but slick, bald skin and scabbed-over wounds that sting and throb with every movement. I can feel the lice crawling, biting, nesting in the few damp patches that still have some fuzz. Worse, maggots wriggle beneath the surface, feeding on the decayed parts of me—I hear them sometimes, a soft squelching when I press down. Flies circle constantly, landing to feed and lay more eggs. Their buzzing is maddening. The smell is unbearable, like death clinging to me. It doesn’t feel like a scalp anymore. It feels like a festering swamp glued to my skull—alive, but not mine. But I date supermodels.
this reads like a nightmare
 

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