Nico Rosberg, 27!
27 was literally You're On Your Own Kid there's nothing I can write that will ever match up to the fancam that plays in my head every time I think about this song in the context of Nico Rosberg.

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Nico Rosberg, 27!
27 was literally You're On Your Own Kid there's nothing I can write that will ever match up to the fancam that plays in my head every time I think about this song in the context of Nico Rosberg.

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CD #3
Whirrrrrrrrrrā¦
A throat clears, and for a minute, the only sound is the soft whirring noise of a crank being turned.
Eventually, though, thereās a breath in, then out, and then a voice.
āSo I think I learned what a āsupernatural thrillerā is today, hehā¦ā There is no smile in the laugh. Thereās a noise of uncertainty. āI- So- Itās-ā A sigh. āFrom the beginning, yeahā¦ā
people dismiss the butcher army wayyyyyyyyyy too easily. they literally hunted down technoblade and executed him. they locked phil--his best friend--in a house directly in front of the execution platform. ppl ignore the horror of the situation because they didnt react like sadboys or lose a canon life. btw techno actually fucking died what do you thinkĀ āpostmortalā means
i dont have a desk so when i draw for 6+ hours a day im hunched over in my bed and GOD MY BACK FUCKIN HURTS BRO
No matter where; of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth, Let's choose executors and talk of wills: And yet not so, for what can we bequeath Save our deposed bodies to the ground? Our lands, our lives and all are Bolingbroke's, And nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings; How some have been deposed; some slain in war, Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed; Some poison'd by their wives: some sleeping kill'd; All murder'd: for within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp, Allowing him a breath, a little scene, To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks, Infusing him with self and vain conceit, As if this flesh which walls about our life, Were brass impregnable, and humour'd thus Comes at the last and with a little pin Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king! Cover your heads and mock not flesh and blood With solemn reverence: throw away respect, Tradition, form and ceremonious duty, For you have but mistook me all this while: I live with bread like you, feel want, Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus, How can you say to me, I am a king?

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the girl who broke in to nctās bus and posted a video of it saying she ājust wanted to share this really cool experienceā,,,,,,,
imagine being an absolute loser and making anĀ āanti-togafukaā playlist