"Soul" in any sense, metaphorical, spiritual or religious, does not exist. What simpletons experience, specifically in the sense of a game having a "soul" is a feeling of comfort, enjoyment and fulfillment (among other positive feelings). Those simpletons, usually rarely experience such feeling, especially outside of gaming, and cannot comprehend that non simpletons can find positive feelings and emotion in many games (as well outside of gaming). You're a prime example of such creature, and the most fascinating part is you do not even understand or comprehend how wasted and useless your mind is. Truly a wonder to behold and a warning for all parents.
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Oh, these? My boobies?
Oh, these? My boobies? My massive fucking titties? My super stuffed milkies? My honker bonker doinky boinkies? My fucking fabric stretching wind flapping gravity welling sex mounds? You mean these super duper ultra hyper god damn motherfucking tits?
Keep spamming, while I succes at life
twitchquotes:
Since my IQ is quite above the average, I will not be joining this spamming festival. I know you would not understand it, just like you dont understand why I have a girlfriend, good job, and big library. Keep spamming, while I succes at life.
twitch chat
Can you please stop making me sweat for more salt?
twitchquotes:
reynad, everytime I watch you I start sweating, I believe this is because you have the power to harvest salt through my pores even through the internet, can you please stop making me sweat for more salt?
twitch chat
Reynad
salty
Mew
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Pokemon
It's not gay with socks on
When I was 13 years old a buddy of mine tried to convince me to fool around. I wasn't into it, and he told me it's not gay if you're wearing socks. I didn't believe him, went home, and asked my dad.
That's 'gentleman's gay', hardly gay at all. Don't see it much these days.
The 50s were a different time. What were we to do? We were typical boarding school boys, rich with vigor, skin slick with drying sweat and gritty earth from a game of pigskin.
At night our young, virile bodies filled the dorm with sweet-musky vapors, like game-meat stewed with apple and peppercorn. You'd awake in darkness to the hushed, melodic rhythm of two pairs of white tube socks, barely visible in moonlight, bouncing on the hardwood floor.
The deep bond of male friendship played like a thousand different human instruments. The wet claps of skin on skin, the gentle thud of heads on backboards, frenzied cries in the throes of climax. Wilbur, so fat and soft like tapioca pudding. His breasts were so like the real thing, what we fantasized of our future wives. Unwilling, defenseless Wilbur, so slow and uncoordinated in the dark. 10 of us would glaze his bare, pink flesh like a giant raspberry danish. He once had the audacity to tell Headmaster Redford. But Redford was a Deerfield boy once, he understood. So he joined us on our midnight hog hunts.
Through college and years after we'd find time here and there, away from the wives at a family lake house. But it's been decades now - the times have certainly changed. If you wanted to do something private with another man, in your socks, it wasn’t ‘gay’. It was just two men, celebrating each other's strength.