I got the rarest pet in old school runescape today

[DrPillzRedux]

How does that make you feel?

[nianjiilical]

can you cook trout on him

[Helios]

I still can't get a firecape

[DrPillzRedux]

I've gotten 14 fire capes and 2 infernal capes. Got the pet on 2nd inferno, which literally pisses my irl friend who plays rs the fuck off.

[wesoda25]

Dbbd drunk but do you ever think that above all you want to rethrn to the womb? I picture that state of unaware bliss and its just so peaceful to me. I wish in death we went to that placeD butni know we dont ??

[wesoda25]

[Verse 1]
I like the peace
In the backseat
I don't have to drive
I don't have to speak
I can watch the countryside
And I can fall asleep

[Verse 2]
My family tree's
Losing all its leaves
Crashing towards the driver's seat
The lightning bolt made enough heat
To melt the street beneath your feet

[Chorus]
Alice died
In the night
I've been learning to drive
My whole life
I've been learning

[Verse 1]
I like the peace
In the backseat
I don't have to drive
I don't have to speak
I can watch the countryside...

[Chorus]
Alice died
In the night
I've been learning to drive
My whole life
I've been learning. O-oh..!

[Outro]
Hoo-oo-ooh! Hoo-oo-ooh!
No-or-aaah!
Hoo-oo-ooh! Hoo-oo-ooh...!

[wesoda25]

could b favoreit idl could be

[wesoda25]

read some bok good i mean never understo existntaliam is much as now i mean seriously like good shit mama i always understajd but didnt believe but no i do and like interestng thing is not change that myuch i wonder why.
Story Title: How to Tell a True War Story Note: I think I finally sort of get what he was getting at here. It doesn’t matter if a story is true or not so long as it conveys the truth in the best possible manner. In O’Brien’s eyes, telling a lie is completely valid because it allows him to illustrate a truth about the universe, or at least war, in it’s best way. Because of that, it's far truer than any real story he could tell.

[wesoda25]

what i respect most ab the last chapter is how it makes me feel. I mean he's quite literally bringing the dead to life, the inexistant to being. that is the immense power which a story teller possesses do I know kiowa? no i fucking dont. but now he is a person, a meaning, a thing, the things he carrieda symbol, because obriune created him in my mind. the tru power of story tel;ing. wow..... in the backseat... beatuflul

[wesoda25]

How to tell a true war story
This one does it for me. I've told it before—many times,
many versions—but here's what actually happened.
We crossed that river and marched west into the
mountains. On the third day, Curt Lemon stepped on a boobytrapped 105 round. He was playing catch with Rat Kiley,
laughing, and then he was dead. The trees were thick; it took
nearly an hour to cut an LZ for the dustoff.
Later, higher in the mountains, we came across a baby VC
(74)
water buffalo. What it was doing there I don't know—no farms
or paddies—but we chased it down and got a rope around it
and led it along to a deserted village where we set up for the
night. After supper Rat Kiley went over and stroked its nose.
He opened up a can of C rations, pork and beans, but the
baby buffalo wasn't interested.
Rat shrugged.
He stepped back and shot it through the right front knee.
The animal did not make a sound. It went down hard, then got
up again, and Rat took careful aim and shot off an ear. He shot
it in the hindquarters and in the little hump at its back. He shot
it twice in the flanks. It wasn't to kill; it was to hurt. He put the
rifle muzzle up against the mouth and shot the mouth away.
Nobody said much. The whole platoon stood there watching,
feeling all kinds of things, but there wasn't a great deal of pity
for the baby water buffalo.
Curt Lemon was dead. Rat Kiley had
lost his best friend in the world. Later in the week he would
write a long personal letter to the guy's sister, who would not
write back, but for now it was a question of pain. He shot off
the tail. He shot away chunks of meat below the ribs. All
around us there was the smell of smoke and filth and deep
greenery, and the evening was humid and very hot. Rat went to
automatic. He shot randomly, almost casually, quick little
spurts in the belly and butt. Then he reloaded, squatted down,
and shot it in the left front knee. Again the animal fell hard and
tried to get up, but this time it couldn't quite make it. It
wobbled and went down sideways.
Rat shot it in the nose. He
bent forward and whispered something, as if talking to a pet,
then he shot it in the throat. All the while the baby buffalo (75)
was silent, or almost silent, just a light bubbling sound where
the nose had been. It lay very still. Nothing moved except the
eyes, which were enormous, the pupils shiny black and dumb. Rat Kiley was crying. He tried to say something, but then
cradled his rifle and went off by himself.
The rest of us stood in a ragged circle around the baby
buffalo. For a time no one spoke. We had witnessed something
essential, something brand-new and profound, a piece of the
world so startling there was not yet a name for it.
Somebody kicked the baby buffalo.
It was still alive, though just barely, just in the eyes.
"Amazing," Dave Jensen said. "My whole life, I never seen
anything like it."
"Never?"
"Not hardly. Not once."
Kiowa and Mitchell Sanders picked up the baby buffalo.
They hauled it across the open square, hoisted it up, and
dumped it in the village well.
Afterward, we sat waiting for Rat to get himself together.
"Amazing," Dave Jensen kept saying. "A new wrinkle. I
never seen it before."
Mitchell Sanders took out his yo-yo. "Well, that's Nam," he
said. "Garden of Evil. Over here, man, every sin's real fresh and
original."

[wesoda25]

Speaking of Courage
The war was over and there was no place in particular to
go. Norman Bowker followed the tar road on its seven-mile
loop around the lake, then he started all over again, driving
slowly, feeling safe inside his father's big Chevy, now and then
looking out on the lake to watch the boats and water-skiers and
scenery. It was Sunday and it was summer, and the town
seemed pretty much the same. The lake lay flat and silvery
against the sun. Along the road the houses were all low-slung
and split-level and modern, with big porches and picture
windows facing the water. The lawns were spacious. On the
lake side of the road, where real estate was most valuable, the
houses were handsome and set deep in, well kept and brightly
painted, with docks jutting out into the lake, and boats moored
and covered with canvas, and neat gardens, and sometimes
even gardeners, and stone patios with barbecue spits and grills,
and wooden shingles saying who lived where. On the other side
of the road, to his left, the houses were also handsome, though
less ex-(131)
pensive and on a smaller scale and with no docks or boats or
gardeners. The road was a sort of boundary between the
affluent and the almost affluent, and to live on the lake side of
the road was one of the few natural privileges in a town of the
prairie—the difference between watching the sun set over
cornfields or over water.
It was a graceful, good-sized lake. Back in high school, at
night, he had driven around and around it with Sally Kramer,
wondering if she'd want to pull into the shelter of Sunset Park,
or other times with his friends, talking about urgent matters,
worrying about the existence of God and theories of causation.
Then, there had not been a war. But there had always been the
lake, which was the town's first cause of existence, a place for
immigrant settlers to put down their loads. Before the settlers
were the Sioux, and before the Sioux were the vast open
prairies, and before the prairies there was only ice. The lake
bed had been dug out by the southernmost advance of the
Wisconsin glacier. Fed by neither streams nor springs, the lake
was often filthy and algaed, relying on fickle prairie rains for
replenishment. Still, it was the only important body of water
within forty miles, a source of pride, nice to look at on bright
summer days, and later that evening it would color up with
fireworks. Now, in the late afternoon, it lay calm and smooth, a
good audience for silence, a seven-mile circumference that
could be traveled by slow car in twenty-five minutes. It was not
such a good lake for swimming. After high school, he'd caught
an ear infection that had almost kept him out of the war. And
the lake had drowned his friend Max Arnold, keeping him out
of the war entirely. Max had been one who liked to talk about
the existence of God. "No, I'm not saying that," he'd (132)
argue against the drone of the engine. "I'm saying it's possible
as an idea, even necessary as an idea, a final cause in the whole
structure of causation." Now he knew, perhaps. Before the war
they'd driven around the lake as friends, but now Max was just
an idea, and most of Norman Bowker's other friends were
living in Des Moines or Sioux City, or going to school
somewhere, or holding down jobs. The high school girls were
mostly gone or married. Sally Kramer, whose pictures he had
once carried in his wallet, was one who had married. Her name
was now Sally Gustafson and she lived in a pleasant blue house
on the less expensive side of the lake road. On his third day
home he'd seen her out mowing the lawn, still pretty in a lacy
red blouse and white shorts. For a moment he'd almost pulled
over, just to talk, but instead he'd pushed down hard on the gas
pedal. She looked happy. She had her house and her new
husband, and there was really nothing he could say to her.
The town seemed remote somehow. Sally was remarried
and Max was drowned and his father was at home watching
baseball on national TV.
Norman Bowker shrugged. "No problem," he murmured.
Clockwise, as if in orbit, he took the Chevy on another
seven-mile turn around the lake.
Even in late afternoon the day was hot. He turned on the
air conditioner, then the radio, and he leaned back and let the
cold air and music blow over him. Along the road, kicking
stones in front of them, two young boys were hiking with
knapsacks and toy rifles and canteens. He honked going by, but
neither boy looked up. Already he had passed them six times,
forty-two miles, nearly three hours without stop. He watched
the boys recede in his rearview mirror. They (133) turned a soft grayish color, like sand, before finally
disappearing.
He tapped down lightly on the accelerator.
Out on the lake a man's motorboat had stalled; the man
was bent over the engine with a wrench and a frown. Beyond
the stalled boat there were other boats, and a few water-skiers,
and the smooth July waters, and an immense flatness
everywhere. Two mud hens floated stiffly beside a white dock.
The road curved west, where the sun had now dipped low.
He figured it was close to five o'clock—twenty after, he guessed.
The war had taught him to tell time without clocks, and even at
night, waking from sleep, he could usually place it within ten
minutes either way. What he should do, he thought, is stop at
Sally's house and impress her with this new time-telling trick of
his. They'd talk for a while, catching up on things, and then
he'd say, "Well, better hit the road, it's five thirty-four," and
she'd glance at her wristwatch and say, "Hey! How'd you do
that?" and he'd give a casual shrug and tell her it was just one
of those things you pick up. He'd keep it light. He wouldn't say
anything about anything. "How's it being married?" he might
ask, and he'd nod at whatever she answered with, and he would
not say a word about how he'd almost won the Silver Star for
valor.
He drove past Slater Park and across the causeway and
past Sunset Park. The radio announcer sounded tired. The
temperature in Des Moines was eighty-one degrees, and the
time was five thirty-five, and "All you on the road, drive extra
careful now on this fine Fourth of July." If Sally had not been
married, or if his father were not such a baseball fan, it would
have been a good time to talk. (134)
"The Silver Star?" his father might have said.
"Yes, but I didn't get it. Almost, but not quite."
And his father would have nodded, knowing full well that
many brave men do not win medals for their bravery, and that
others win medals for doing nothing. As a starting point,
maybe, Norman Bowker might then have listed the seven
medals he did win: the Combat Infantryman's Badge, the Air
Medal, the Army Commendation Medal, the Good Conduct
Medal, the Vietnam Campaign Medal, the Bronze Star, and the
Purple Heart, though it wasn't much of a wound and did not
leave a scar and did not hurt and never had. He would've
explained to his father that none of these decorations was for
uncommon valor. They were for common valor. The routine,
daily stuff—just humping, just enduring—but that was worth
something, wasn't it? Yes, it was. Worth plenty. The ribbons
looked good on the uniform in his closet, and if his father were
to ask, he would've explained what each signified and how he
was proud of all of them, especially the Combat Infantryman's
Badge, because it meant he had been there as a real soldier and
had done all the things soldiers do, and therefore it wasn't such
a big deal that he could not bring himself to be uncommonly
brave.
And then he would have talked about the medal he did not
win and why he did not win it.
"I almost won the Silver Star," he would have said.
"How's that?"
"Just a story."
"So tell me," his father would have said.
Slowly then, circling the lake, Norman Bowker would have
started by describing the Song Tra Bong. "A river," he would've
said, "this slow flat muddy river." He would've ex-(135)

[wesoda25]

plained how during the dry season it was exactly like any other
river, nothing special, but how in October the monsoons began
and the whole situation changed. For a solid week the rains
never stopped, not once, and so after a few days the Song Tra
Bong overflowed its banks and the land turned into a deep,
thick muck for a half mile on either side. Just muck—no other
word for it. Like quicksand, almost, except the stink was
incredible. "You couldn't even sleep," he'd tell his father. "At
night you'd find a high spot, and you'd doze off, but then later
you'd wake up because you'd be buried in all that slime. You'd
just sink in. You'd feel it ooze up over your body and sort of
suck you down. And the whole time there was that constant
rain. I mean, it never stopped, not ever."
"Sounds pretty wet," his father would've said, pausing
briefly. "So what happened?"
"You really want to hear this?"
"Hey, I'm your father."
Norman Bowker smiled. He looked out across the lake and
imagined the feel of his tongue against the truth. "Well, this
one time, this one night out by the river ... I wasn't very brave."
"You have seven medals."
"Sure."
"Seven. Count 'em. You weren't a coward either."
"Well, maybe not. But I had the chance and I blew it. The
stink, that's what got to me. I couldn't take that goddamn awful
smell."
"If you don't want to say any more—"
"I do want to."
"All right then. Slow and sweet, take your time." (136)
The road descended into the outskirts of town, turning
northwest past the junior college and the tennis courts, then
past Chautauqua Park, where the picnic tables were spread
with sheets of colored plastic and where picnickers sat in lawn
chairs and listened to the high school band playing Sousa
marches under the band shell. The music faded after a few
blocks. He drove beneath a canopy of elms, then along a stretch
of open shore, then past the municipal docks, where a woman
in pedal pushers stood casting for bullheads. There were no
other fish in the lake except for perch and a few worthless carp.
It was a bad lake for swimming and fishing both.
He drove slowly. No hurry, nowhere to go. Inside the
Chevy the air was cool and oily-smelling, and he took pleasure
in the steady sounds of the engine and air-conditioning. A tour
bus feeling, in a way, except the town he was touring seemed
dead. Through the windows, as if in a stop-motion photograph,
the place looked as if it had been hit by nerve gas, everything
still and lifeless, even the people. The town could not talk, and
would not listen. "How'd you like to hear about the war?" he
might have asked, but the place could only blink and shrug. It
had no memory, therefore no guilt. The taxes got paid and the
votes got counted and the agencies of government did their
work briskly and politely. It was a brisk, polite town. It did not
know shit about shit, and did not care to know.
Norman Bowker leaned back and considered what he
might've said on the subject. He knew shit. It was his specialty.
The smell, in particular, but also the numerous varieties of
texture and taste. Someday he'd give a lecture on the topic. Put
on a suit and tie and stand up in front of the Ki-(137)
wanis club and tell the fuckers about all the wonderful shit he
knew. Pass out samples, maybe.
Smiling at this, he clamped the steering wheel slightly
right of center, which produced a smooth clockwise motion
against the curve of the road. The Chevy seemed to know its
own way.
The sun was lower now. Five fifty-five, he decided—six
o'clock, tops.
Along an unused railway spur, four workmen labored in
the shadowy red heat, setting up a platform and steel launchers
for the evening fireworks. They were dressed alike in khaki
trousers, work shirts, visored caps, and brown boots. Their
faces were dark and smudgy. "Want to hear about the Silver
Star I almost won?" Norman Bowker whispered, but none of
the workmen looked up. Later they would blow color into the
sky. The lake would sparkle with reds and blues and greens,
like a mirror, and the picnickers would make low sounds of
appreciation.
"Well, see, it never stopped raining," he would've said.
"The muck was everywhere, you couldn't get away from it."
He would have paused a second.
Then he would have told about the night they bivouacked
in a field along the Song Tra Bong. A big swampy field beside
the river. There was a ville nearby, fifty meters downstream,
and right away a dozen old mama-sans ran out and started
yelling. A weird scene, he would've said. The mama-sans just
stood there in the rain, soaking wet, yapping away about how
this field was bad news. Number ten, they said. Evil ground.
Not a good spot for good GIs. Finally Lieutenant Jimmy Cross
had to get out his pistol and fire off a few rounds just to shoo
them away. By then it was almost (138)
dark. So they set up a perimeter, ate chow, then crawled under
their ponchos and tried to settle in for the night.
But the rain kept getting worse. And by midnight the field
turned into soup.
"Just this deep, oozy soup," he would've said. "Like sewage
or something. Thick and mushy. You couldn't sleep. You
couldn't even lie down, not for long, because you'd start to sink
under the soup. Real clammy. You could feel the crud coming
up inside your boots and pants."
Here, Norman Bowker would have squinted against the
low sun. He would have kept his voice cool, no self-pity.
"But the worst part," he would've said quietly, "was the
smell. Partly it was the river—a dead-fish smell—but it was
something else, too. Finally somebody figured it out. What this
was, it was a shit field. The village toilet. No indoor plumbing,
right? So they used the field. I mean, we were camped in a
goddamn shit field."
He imagined Sally Kramer closing her eyes.
If she were here with him, in the car, she would've said,
"Stop it. I don't like that word."
"That's what it was."
"All right, but you don't have to use that word."
"Fine. What should we call it?"
She would have glared at him. "I don't know. Just stop it."
Clearly, he thought, this was not a story for Sally Kramer.
She was Sally Gustafson now. No doubt Max would've liked it,
the irony in particular, but Max had become a pure idea, which
was its own irony. It was just too bad. If his father were here,
riding shotgun around the lake, the old man might have
glanced over for a second, understanding perfectly well that it
was not a question of offensive language (139)

[wesoda25]

jarhead is great and when the vietnam vet gets on the buss honestly makes the film so much better. no war is the same. thats the fucking point. the v vet is tortured by the things he did. the marines are tortured by the things they didnt do

[bobbahbrown]

Dbbd drunk but do you ever think that above all you want to rethrn to the womb? I picture that state of unaware bliss and its just so peaceful to me. I wish in death we went to that placeD butni know we dont ??

[wesoda25]

Dbbd drunk but do you ever think that above all you want to rethrn to the womb? I picture that state of unaware bliss and its just so peaceful to me. I wish in death we went to that placeD butni know we dont ??

Yeah, I know I'm a king
Stock on my shoulder, I was sinkin'
I ain't know that I could leave
Papa called me chief
Gotta keep it brief
Locked and load, I can see you lyin' through your teeth
Fingers on my soul, this is 23
Blood in the water, I was walkin' in my sleep
Blood on my father, I forgot another dream
I was playin' with the magic, hide blessings in my sleeve
Yeah, I know I'm a king, stock on my shoulder, I was sinkin'
I ain't know that I could leave
Papa called me chief
Gotta keep it brief
Locked and load, I can see you lyin' through your teeth
Fingers on my soul, this is 23
Blood in the water, I was walkin' in my sleep
Blood on my father, I forgot another dream
I was playin' with the magic, hide blessings in my sleeve
Yeah, I know I'm a king, stock on my shoulder, I was sinkin'
I ain't know that I could leave
Papa called me chief
Gotta keep it brief
Locked and load, I can see you lyin' through your teeth
Fingers on my soul, this is 23
Blood in the water, I was walkin' in my sleep
Blood on my father, I forgot another dream
I was playin' with the magic, hide blessings in my sleeve
Yeah, I know I'm a king, stock on my shoulder, I was sinkin'
I ain't know that I could leave
Papa called me chief
Gotta keep it brief
Locked and load, I can see you lyin' through your teeth
Fingers on my soul, this is 23
Blood in the water, I was walkin' in my sleep
Blood on my father, I forgot another dream
I was playin' with the magic, hide blessings in my sleeve

[wesoda25]

The boy been gone a few summers too long from road runnin'
Trunk full of old hunnids
Of course my old lover was scorned, we grow from it
Don't tell me they don't hunt us for sport, I chose substances
No cuddles, the bases is all covered
Niggas come in the door and smoke somethin'
Choke up on the slugger from home run-ins
Nigga it's on, chest thump, his head thump on the floor
We pressed up on the boy, no more bluffin'
Cold summers, don't tussle with strangers
Some of those keep one in the chamber
Three spliffs had my wing tips clipped, I was stuck in a hangar, nigga
Muffle my pain and muzzle my brain up
Really, I'm just makin' sure my promise is kept
Chuck a deuce if you know it's the end
Kept the truth in my palm and my chest
See it through, keep a noose hangin' off of my neck
We got the juice, niggas corny as shit
We on the loose, niggas know what it is
We makin' moves, niggas corny as shit
We got the juice, niggas know what it is
Yeah

[wesoda25]

hatrick first time in ayear lesgo
and wind in my sials after that oo lord

[DrPillzRedux]

Get the fuck out of my face, wesoda

[Stickymayhem]

stop trying to be terbs you're not terbs

[cacogen]

that musical interlude made me look at the genius page for that song. i never knew it was about her mother. i used to listen to their albums a lot while playing SS13

[wesoda25]

Get the fuck out of my face, wesoda

If its any consolation I don’t really remember posting that stuff. Congrats on your pet though

[Nabski]

Congrats on your pet.

Also wesoda

Spoiler:

SNIFF SNIFF is that feet I smell? Said Ryan Cobb, as his boner swelled. "Feet, feet, feet with sweat!" He chanted loud, like a threat. Fast and nimble, quiet as night, Ryan cobb did say with delight: "YES I SEE THEM, TASTY FEET, SWEATY LARGE AND READY TO EAT!" He sucked the toes and slurped them down as with horror did watch the clown! He slobbered, swallowed, and sucked with grace as did horror befall our face! The Stun baton swang fast and fleet, so did signal ryan's defeat! But if you see him in the halls, bald head shining off the walls, keep your shoes on, laces knit, lest ryan catch you, and your forced to submit

[ThanatosRa]

Spoiler:

I’ll make you pee red like my name was syphilis

I’m always good so I stay on Santa’s list

I’ll be-bop-a-lu-bop on your wop-sham-boo

And I’ll makalaka-hi on your hiney-ho

I’m not as tough as your momma but I look better in heels

And like deliverance I’m making fat boys squeal

I got holes in my socks and in my underwear too

What’s wrong little girl, want me to kiss your boo-boo?



They call me Mr Yuk because I smell like crap

And I always get applause because I got the clap

I will kill you with kindness and then rape your corpse

I was always last picked in the high school sports



I gots more rhymes than a unicycle has wheels

More lyrics than an Ethiopian has meals

I got the skills to pay my bills

I gets paid by the sperm bank test tubes I fill



I’ll make you sick like the plague

My words are never vague

Girls don’t like me cause my underwear is stained

I leave a bad taste, make no mistake

Cause I got mad flavor, like a diet rice cake



I run like Forrest Gump when danger’s near

And I cry like a baby in the face of fear

I’m a P to the U to the S, S, Y

A, E, I, O, U and sometimes Y

I’m a coward, I’m a chicken

And I always avoid the butt kickin’

I’ll make you once

I’ll make you twice

I’ll make you three times the lady

Cause I’m ugly as hell and I steal candy from babies



I’m looking for nub in all the wrong places

The big wide booties and the ugly faces

All I’m asking is a chance or hell even pity

Cause if I die a virgin (Man that would suck)



I don’t have a job so I’m always flat broke

I smell so bad it might make you choke

If you get with me you can leave at will

Because if my breath doesn’t scare ya, my herpes sores will

I’m nasty, I pick my nose

But I’m the only one who seems to love all you hoes

I got the smallest penis that you’ve ever seen

So I gotta get the skins, kinda like Ed Gein



I will hit that ass like my name was John Gotti

I will tag that ass like it was a dead body

I will bite your ear off like my name was Mike Tyson

And I’ll hadouken like my name was M. Bison



I’m not picky, my standards are low

I’ll pick up your groceries and score you some blow

I don’t care if you’re ugly, I don’t care if you’re fat

I’ll even help you lance all the boils on your back

I’ll vacuum your rug and I’ll iron your shirts

If you’re really young I’ll even do your homework

I don’t care if you’re a midget or you have STD’s

I don’t really even care if you’re related to me



Do you have down syndrome?

Do you have arms and legs?

Are you human? I don’t care

I ain’t too proud to beg

You don’t have to say you love me

I don’t care about that

All you have to do is be alive

And I’m even flexible with that



I’ll be dropping all the bombs like my name was Hiroshima

I’ll be making your coffee taste good like I was non-dairy creamer

I will start at your toes and move up past your femur

I’m your warrior princess, so just call me Xena

I’ll crash through your bedroom like Big Jim Slade

Ain’t nothing gonna stop me from getting laid

I’ll bust a rhyme, I’ll bust a beat, I’ll bust a nut in my pants

I’ll rock you like a hurricane if you give me the chance



Cause I redefine inadequacy

Look in your dictionary and there’s a picture of me

And so a raincloud follows me where ever I go

I’m always makin’ milk curdle in the grocery store

I fly through the air with the greatest of ease

And I’m Siamese and even if you don’t please

And Stella don’t got more groove than me

Cause I got more funk than moldy cheese



My middle testicle hands lower than the other two

I know I’m ugly but come on baby so are you

I’ll make you dinner I’ll make you animal balloons

Christ, I’m a fucking loser