Just die then, Gunt. No one cares about the dire state of your health, not even you.
Her years of cycling, raging and generally being a massive cunt have exhausted the last drops of sympathy she can wring out of a new audience not yet hip to her cunty ways. She fucked herself over with the Muslim sub-for-sub scam, her most ardent supporters are long gone except for a small number of morons like Teardrop who shall bail in due time too, she's found herself broke and alone in a sand prison with a retard autist and a cat that can't stand her. Are ya winning, Cutie?
I, like many of you I'm sure, have already mourned her death. Not her mortal death but her death as an object of fascination and horror. The Gunt we knew and loathed died long ago. We're now watching a soulless, barely animated black bedsheet cram beige food into its mouth while it waits for death, every once in awhile expressing a vague and disingenuous desire to crawl its way back to humanity. It doesn't believe its own lies. It can't even find a temporary wellspring of joy from its first and only love food.
It's best for her and for us as disinterested observers if she hurples toward the light to the big unlimited buffet in the sky already.
RIP Idomyfoodbucketlist Gunt. Rest in (peach) piss
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