It was a dark and rainy night as the lonely Capsuleer slowly deliberated the imminent task of writing a shitty quasi-roleplay Bio. At the age of 42,184 years, Fatbear found himself closely approaching the age of Danno's mum. Running into the adversity of bad TS3 conversations, Friman's dog needing a shit and Nick smoking himself stupid it became almost impossible to consider constructing a written piece, especially in the third person.
Despite the overwhelming itch between his toes, Fatbear vowed to continue writing until he at least surpassed the 800 character mark. Six hundred and sixty seven to go... well, at the start of that sentence there was, now it's 763... 763... 764. Wiccan definitely uses too much sherbert though.
So with a heavy heart it became apparent that Distortion sat at a POS-bash for 40 minutes without a fitting that could actually shoot the POS. There was much anger, and a declaration of raging idiocy was made.
Fascias and Soffits \m/
Dashboard
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Intel Profile
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