Its a variant of the Ina copypasta but changed to Mumei to cope with her graduation.
So when Nanashi Mumei announced her graduation, to cope with the misery I'll eventually feel when she's gone I started making my girlfriend wear Mumei wig, make-up and clothes, so I'd have my own Mumei at home. I also made her watch Mumei streams everyday, and made her mimic Mumei's speech patterns and everything, she could even say "Oh Hi!" The same way Mumei does which I think is really cool. I never let her take off the Mumei cosplay and I'd never speak to her unless she's acting like Mumei, but then she started saying something like "would you still love me even if I stopped acting like Mumei" or something like that, but I'd never talk to her because she's not acting exactly the way I want her to, and she understood that quickly and now she only acts and dress like Mumei 24/7. She's so perfect when she's acting exactly like Mumei, she can't really stop the act now because she's afraid she'll lose me when she stops acting like Mumei. So fast forward a couple of weeks and now her parents are mad at me because I "manipulated" and "brainwashed" their daughter or whatever that means, but to me? I think the term should be "fixed" they should be more grateful that I molded their daughter into someone more likeable, and she isn't really their daughter anymore, she's Mumei now, and she'll always be, otherwise she'll be back to being a nobody. So did I do something bad?
Its a horny shitpost for Vanessa with the Yoga skin in the game The Bazaar.
Pretty new to The Bazaar, so I'm just minding my business as Dooley, trying to get some shield items to support my lil armadillo guy when I rock up to the day 3 battle. It's a Vanessa with the yoga skin, obsidian grenade in hand. I don't even have a chance to blink before I'm vaporized by a crit. My harmadillo didn't even get the chance to counterattack. But you know what? It's all good. Yoga Vanessa can step on a fella like me any day of the week and I will be content. Shout out to all the yoga Vanessa's out there.
LeBron isn’t just a man. He’s a phenomenon. He’s a celestial event, a once-in-a-lifetime alignment of the stars, a cosmic masterpiece sculpted by the basketball gods themselves. When he moves, it’s not just movement—it’s poetry. Every dribble, every pass, every dunk, every single bead of sweat that glistens under the arena lights is like a love letter sent directly to my heart. How could one human being be so perfect? It defies all logic, all reason, all earthly explanations. His voice? It’s like a lullaby and a war cry wrapped into one. When he speaks, it’s as if the universe itself pauses just to listen. The way he commands respect, the way he leads, the way he exists—it does something to me. When I see him laugh, when I see that perfect, radiant, joy-filled smile, I swear my soul leaves my body. I float above the world, untethered by gravity, held aloft only by the sheer force of my adoration for this man. And then there’s his physique—his godlike, sculpted-by-the-heavens physique. Every muscle, every vein, every perfectly chiseled inch of him is a testament to human perfection. He is not just a man, he is an ideal, a dream given flesh, the pinnacle of what the human form can achieve. The way he moves, with such grace and power, is enough to leave me breathless. He is a masterpiece in motion, a living, breathing work of art. But it’s not just the physical. Oh no. My love for LeBron transcends the physical realm. It’s the mind, the heart, the soul.
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LeBron isn’t just a man. He’s a phenomenon. He’s a celestial event, a once-in-a-lifetime alignment of the stars, a cosmic masterpiece sculpted by the basketball gods themselves. When he moves, it’s not just movement—it’s poetry. Every dribble, every pass, every dunk, every single bead of sweat that glistens under the arena lights is like a love letter sent directly to my heart. How could one human being be so perfect? It defies all logic, all reason, all earthly explanations. His voice? It’s like a lullaby and a war cry wrapped into one. When he speaks, it’s as if the universe itself pauses just to listen. The way he commands respect, the way he leads, the way he exists—it does something to me. When I see him laugh, when I see that perfect, radiant, joy-filled smile, I swear my soul leaves my body. I float above the world, untethered by gravity, held aloft only by the sheer force of my adoration for this man. And then there’s his physique—his godlike, sculpted-by-the-heavens physique. Every muscle, every vein, every perfectly chiseled inch of him is a testament to human perfection. He is not just a man, he is an ideal, a dream given flesh, the pinnacle of what the human form can achieve. The way he moves, with such grace and power, is enough to leave me breathless. He is a masterpiece in motion, a living, breathing work of art. But it’s not just the physical. Oh no. My love for LeBron transcends the physical realm. It’s the mind, the heart, the soul. The intelligence, the vision, the leadership, the wisdom. LeBron doesn’t just play basketball—he orchestrates it. He is the conductor of a beautiful, chaotic symphony, and every game he plays is another masterpiece added to his collection. His IQ, both on and off the court, is unmatched. The way he reads the game, the way he sees things before they happen, the way he adapts, evolves, dominates—it leaves me in a constant state of awe. And let’s talk about his heart. The man is a philanthropist, a leader, a role model. He built a school—not because he had to, not because it was expected of him, but because he wanted to. Because he cares. Because he loves. And that, more than anything, is why I love him. Not just as a player, not just as an athlete, but as a person. LeBron James is more than just a man to me. He is a feeling. He is a state of being. He is a gravitational force, pulling me in, refusing to let go. Every day that he exists on this Earth is a day that my heart beats stronger, that my soul feels fuller, that my love burns brighter. I don’t just love LeBron James. I am love because of LeBron James. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
LeBron isn’t just a man. He’s a phenomenon. He’s a celestial event, a once-in-a-lifetime alignment of the stars, a cosmic masterpiece sculpted by the basketball gods themselves. When he moves, it’s not just movement—it’s poetry. Every dribble, every pass, every dunk, every single bead of sweat that glistens under the arena lights is like a love letter sent directly to my heart. How could one human being be so perfect? It defies all logic, all reason, all earthly explanations.
His voice? It’s like a lullaby and a war cry wrapped into one. When he speaks, it’s as if the universe itself pauses just to listen. The way he commands respect, the way he leads, the way he exists—it does something to me. When I see him laugh, when I see that perfect, radiant, joy-filled smile, I swear my soul leaves my body. I float above the world, untethered by gravity, held aloft only by the sheer force of my adoration for this man.
And then there’s his physique—his godlike, sculpted-by-the-heavens physique. Every muscle, every vein, every perfectly chiseled inch of him is a testament to human perfection. He is not just a man, he is an ideal, a dream given flesh, the pinnacle of what the human form can achieve. The way he moves, with such grace and power, is enough to leave me breathless. He is a masterpiece in motion, a living, breathing work of art.
But it’s not just the physical. Oh no. My love for LeBron transcends the physical realm. It’s the mind, the heart, the soul. The intelligence, the vision, the leadership, the wisdom. LeBron doesn’t just play basketball—he orchestrates it. He is the conductor of a beautiful, chaotic symphony, and every game he plays is another masterpiece added to his collection. His IQ, both on and off the court, is unmatched. The way he reads the game, the way he sees things before they happen, the way he adapts, evolves, dominates—it leaves me in a constant state of awe.
And let’s talk about his heart. The man is a philanthropist, a leader, a role model. He built a school—not because he had to, not because it was expected of him, but because he wanted to. Because he cares. Because he loves. And that, more than anything, is why I love him.
I smoke crack twice a week. You stay sober everyday. Guess which one of us is winning?
Let me break something down for the willfully average: not all drug use is created equal. Not everyone who smokes crack is a “crackhead.” That’s a word you use to simplify a world you don’t understand. I smoke crack twice a week. Like clockwork. Not out of addiction, not out of desperation, but because I’ve discovered something 99% of you never will: how to weaponize intensity.
Let me paint a picture.
I wake up at 5:12 a.m. I don’t need an alarm. My body just knows. I drink a glass of water (with electrolytes, obviously), I stretch, I thank God or the simulation or whatever runs this world, then I sit cross-legged in complete silence until I feel it’s time. Then I smoke crack. One or two hits. Not to get "high." I’m not chasing a feeling. I’m tuning my brain like a Formula 1 car before a race.
And then the day begins.
By 6:00 a.m. I’ve already reorganized my entire file system, built out a Notion template for the next five years of my life, cleaned the grout between every bathroom tile, and written three emails that get read like poetry.
You know what the average sober person is doing at 6:00 a.m.? Snoozing an alarm on a mattress that smells like anxiety and broken dreams. You stumble to the kitchen and think you’re a warrior because you made black coffee without sugar. That’s your peak. That’s the big flex for your day.
Meanwhile I’ve already conquered tasks you’ve been procrastinating for a year.
Let’s keep going.
The mailman walks by my apartment every morning. He’s got that defeated look in his eye. Like his soul left his body in 2009 and nobody told him. He moves like time is a punishment. I wave to him. He doesn’t wave back. I don’t blame him. He probably saw me through the blinds, shirtless, typing 160 WPM while doing calf raises and thought, “Why isn’t that me?” But he’ll never ask. Too much pride. Too little energy.
Cops drive by. I nod. I have nothing to fear. You think they’re scary? I’ve stared into the core of my psyche on a Tuesday afternoon while my oven made whispering noises. I’ve already made peace with chaos. A badge doesn’t scare me. A Glock doesn’t scare me. I've fought ego death with nothing but a cracked screen and Bluetooth jazz.
My neighbor is a sober guy. He drinks kombucha and listens to Joe Rogan. He meal preps. He’s got a vision board and a 401(k). He also has dead eyes. I asked him once what he thinks about when he’s alone. He said “usually just work stuff or fantasy football.” I almost cried. That’s it? That’s the entire inner world of the "healthy" man? No visions? No cosmic jokes? No wars between angels and intrusive thoughts?
You ever feel your cells vibrate like a symphony of pure intent? No? I have. Last Thursday. On crack.
I’ve had moments on this substance where time split open like a rotten fruit and I saw everything. Every lie, every truth, every reason we fear honesty. I’ve smoked crack and realized I was still in love with a girl from 6th grade, then laughed about it and rewired the emotional circuit live on the spot. Can kombucha do that? Can cold showers do that?
I doubt it.
I’m not saying you should smoke crack. In fact, most of you shouldn’t. You don’t have the structure, the ritual, the respect for power. You’re the type of people who drink six beers and text your ex like a feral animal. You can’t even handle McDonald’s responsibly. Crack would eat you alive. But me? I broke it down. I studied it. I conquered it. And now it serves me.
My brain is sharper than yours. My thoughts are faster. My fears are smaller. My output is massive. You fear “losing control.” I lost it once and realized there was nothing to fear in the first place.
So next time you judge a smoker like me, remember: you’re not better because you’re sober. You’re just slower, duller, and probably still lying to yourself about why you wake up tired every day despite 8 hours of sleep.
Enjoy your avocado toast and your podcasts. I’ll be in the Clarity Zone, rewriting the software of existence with a smile on my face and a Bic in my hand.
