You fucked up kid. As I type this I have my modded PS2 running a track IP script on your post. Once I have triangulated your position in the world, my PS3 will release to your router my very own Pandora box virus. You won't notice it at first, but soon your lame PC will begin to work against you in ways you can't even imagine. First your graphics card will start to emit the flu virus, your ram will be uploaded online so everyone will be able to use it, your motherboard will slowly secrete acidic resin which will fry the electronics. The processor will be fine, just to give you hope.
You will be left with a husk of a machine, all because you decided to critique my mental ability... was it worth it?
Not even your mummy can help you now fuck boy
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IF YOU SEE THIS MESSAGE WHILE SCROLLING, Riot's MI瞳蛣G虆虅铜艇虘虌蛦H虄虅叹虄通蛼T虉虗通虌蛫彤Y虓虅蛣 通虆蛣S虄停蛬蜅桐P虆童虋虖虒A蛺虙G炭HE虃虗蛯T蛡炭虘瞳T亭彤艇I叹蛫庭虌蛫 虄虒C挺探O同挺D處虖E蛫通虋童蛺停虇 蜅蛬虊虇挺探o虜虘虗蛫虄虇f虛蛯同 虘桐停亭el虊o虙同蜅虤亭 亭童蛯桐h炭亭e蛼虌虙虅l酮處叹虂蛫l虁蛬虤虋 has leaked onto your computer. Bug splats and lost elo will come to you unless you COPY and PASTA this message 3 times
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Natalie Portman is the reason I work out
Natalie Portman is the reason I work out. I have this fantasy where we start talking at the Vanity Fair Oscars party bar. We exchange a few pleasantries. She asks what I do. I say I loved her in New Girl. She laughs. I get my drink.
"Well, see ya," I say and walk away. I've got her attention now. How many guys voluntarily leave a conversation with Natalie Portman? She touches her neck as she watches me leave.
Later, as the night's dragged on and the coterie of gorgeous narcissists grows increasingly loose, she finds me on the balcony, my bowtie undone, smoking a cigarette.
"Got a spare?" she asks.
"What's in it for me?" I say as I hand her one of my little white ladies. She smiles.
"Conversation with me, duh."
I laugh.
"What's so funny?" she protests.
"Nothing, nothing... It's just... don't you grow tired of the egos?"
"You get used to it," she says, lighting her cigarette and handing me back the lighter.
"What would you do if you weren't an actress?" I ask.
"Teaching, I think."
"And if I was your student, what would I be learning?"
"Discipline," she says quickly, looking up into my eyes, before changing the subject. "Where are you from?"
"Bermuda," I say.
"Oh wow. That's lovely."
"It's ok," I admit. "Not everything is to my liking."
"What could possibly be not to your liking in Bermuda?" she inquires.
"I don't like sand," I tell her. "It's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere."