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“Your Honor,” Meow hissed, “she took the gravity in the divorce. I float now.”
Tabitha snickered, sipping espresso from a Fabergé egg. “You float because you lack emotional grounding, Greg.”
Gasps. The gallery, full of raccoons in business casual, fainted. Suddenly, the bailiff (a flamingo named Carl) sprouted a third leg and started beatboxing. Chairman Meow shed a single tear of quantum instability and whispered, “I just wanted the scratching post.”
And then the universe blinked out of existence from the sheer awkwardness.
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dm me feet pics tho thnx