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He’s looking at me with smugness painted on his face. He has the certainties of his little mind’s masturbartion. He can decide of my life. He’s right, to some extent. With knowledges of language and grammar as tiny as  his dick, he claims to put a label on me, to classify my skills. He laughs when I say that I love reading .”Books have never filled up a stomach” he giggles.  You’re quite a lucky guy to live in a system that enhances mediocrity, otherwise, dude, instead of making job interviews you were certainly giving blow jobs.

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