I want evil to suffer.
I hate mangoes.
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Transcendence.
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Strong jawline. Must be able to handle a thousand pounds of raw blunt trauma.
There is just something so endearing about the Spaghetti Westerns made in the '60s and '70s. I cannot put my finger on it. Maybe it is the serenity of the lonely and stark terrains of the West, or the perilous adventures of a morally ambiguous drifter in search of Confederate gold. They don't make good movies like that anymore.
What?
If you're still asking this question, you have a lot of growing up to do.
Murphy's law.
"It's not even that hot, bro," says the bro who's visibly sweating through his undies.