Eulogy of Peter Thiel

Pulped like a fleshlight. Nothing even. Honestly. Put me in the right lighting. My skin looks like Jacob Elordi. What can you do. My fingers. Like hell. Blacked out in 2023. Now we’re here. Like hell. I fly around the globe in cardboard wings. My face melts like wax when I touch you. Um. The sky pees down white phosphorus. Um like hell. Now is… time to cancel Taylor Swift. Can we please cancel Dershowitz already, his face is so droopy and disgusting and he was on Epstein’s island, too. Everything is written in chalk and washed away in the rain, or, everything is a 4chan post, or, everything is a psy-op, or, everything slides in and out during the long lubricated march of history, or, everything is estrogen, or, everything is predictive programming, or, everything is killed the second it becomes alive. Like hell. Dude. My eyes, like a hot Houthi Tiktoker. God. Is no match for an iPhone. Is I don’t know. All of my tap water has been replaced with Liquid Death. Oh no. Pumpumpum. Sinking, humming. Being tortured in a melodramatic way. Now we all. Believe in my God. Believe in your Hustle. Like. In some kind of fucked-up way, every elevator ding means that another person has died. Like hell. Pout your lips like. A leopard. A Lexus. Yeah. Robert F. Kennedy, Jr is our American Jesus Christ. He will save us from. I don’t know.

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