Made it to Ithaca in a hour, like. Don’t get all the fuss about this Uselesses lad. Shit drills at the navigation, bud. OBVIOUSLY.

I feel like the doormat here has already spoken for me.

This is my Feuriger Geist-Hodensackwerfer. It werfs Feuriger Geist-Hodensacks.

Hyponatremia check point. SHOW YOUR SALTS.

Uh, lads…. I really am getting messages through my telly.

The fools pay me for this.

This one licks windows.

I need a new red marker.

It was far too early/late to be confronted with this. Makes me want to punch whoever designed it in the taint. This is what happens when you give techbros too many cocaine/ketamine enemas and access to wind tunnels.

Shite! Dad’s here. Surprise inspection. Everybody look evil.

I’ve half a mind on me to get one of those Belgian footy shirts and get a bit kinky.

Today was exceedingly annoying. For about 10 seconds. Which for us goths of the airborne persuasion is the equivalent of a human decade.

That’s no moon. It’s a space…no..wait. Fuck it. Yeah. It’s a moon.

“ Oh noes. How will I ever find Gothson II’s old Outback in a university car park absolutely rammed with beat to fuck Subarus.”

Entering my lesbian Soviet paratrooper era.

*Record scratch* “ You’re probably wondering how I found myself here…”

Oh no. They left one behind.

Gurl, we know he only wants one thing. My

Looking down on @juphoff.bsky.social as usual

Dunno about this lads. What’s it reflecting? Yoda’s arse?

Djob djobbed.

“Wait! Do you want a fiery phantom butt plug up yer hole or wha? ‘Cos yer getting one.”

If I can’t have love, I’ll have their heads. On spikes. This pleases me.

Fwooooar. Pure filth ‘ere. Nasty Irish crone flashing ‘er nasty bits at the neighbours. Fwooooar.

Right!!! Which one of you gopping fuckbakes is this? Playing a guitar? In the terminal? IN FUCKING NASHVILLE? Where’s your hat? I’m going to throw a dollar into it.

How your email would find me if I ever bothered with A. email or B. people that send the wretched things.