I’m a Brood X Cicada. You are a ridiculous human being. We are not the same

With six legs, is re-emerging after being isolated for eons in his anal fluids, and wants to bone up all summer? You, you took the dog, threw the exoskeleton of the clumsy outfit and eager to walk so eagerly that the sex, brunch and sharp jaws created almost an extra body.

Okay, I’m anatomically correct myself, a Brood X bite. Neither we nor we snow“You’ll hear me sing all summer, while I try to get my adaegua into all the sperm cells hanging from the maple’s trunk, if you catch my drift.” After 17 years of being dirty, and psychedelic that mushroom is I took the lower half of my body and somehow even supernovated my sexual desire. But I see you, inserted man, want be me: post your thirst traps, flexing your sins, and because it is so aggressive to dating applications, some public health researchers predict a ITS monsoon in post-vax Summer of Love.

Let’s do one thing right: just having a horn doesn’t mean he’s your hero. Thank you so much for spending so many years underground, I feel like Matthew Perry should feel it going back Friends set For the first time since 2004, but I’m not an over-stimulated animal spirit, the patron saint of White Boy Summer. I’d rather get into your cauliflower soup sooner or later puree me in your guacamole have your pet pandemic after the pound parade in town. You and I, friends, are different.

I know what you’re thinking: Why would I take the advice of the weed? After all, I haven’t been since I lost to Omarosa Apprentice and Usher’s “Burn” was a summer song. And Fauci, after 15 months of your governor’s and your mother’s remarks, you’ll feel like the last thing you need right now is an insect talking. But that’s what you need, a wingless puppet. The analog stops here.

On the one hand, you are at the top of the food chain, I can only pour vegetable juices. Serious scientists also smoke cigarettes “you can eat tree shrimp “. You are Kimmel in addition to throwing jokes about turning chickpeas into a great substitute for pork, I have to work on pork, pork, dog, or pork before I can, whenever I can.

Despite your sudden fascination, we’ve been doing it for 40 million years without a hitch. You guys, on the other hand, have been rehearsing for about four minutes at the summer sex fest, and already incredibly rare than the sex of the weed. Here’s how magic happens to us: men — drums for boys! – they squeeze their abs so tight that they shout louder than the Hoobastank concert. This is our only collection line, which is hardly a medium hit. If they are not females throw us disgusted with the wings, we have been moving for barely an hour. Sometimes the Mapuche will swallow us in the middle, and if we don’t, we die almost immediately. (To read Steam Beach, see ecologist John Cooley on page 347 an overview of how we went down.) Meanwhile, your covering ritual involves sliding your oily legs photos on your giant phonesand then asking people in those photos which vaccine the company got – as a collection line! How romantic.

I hope it doesn’t come out like a sex stick in the mud, which is to think, it’s a wonderful place to do the dirt. You won’t catch me denying that love is love when I step on my partner’s eyeballs with six curls while my white spore was eaten alive by a white cork. But what you’re looking forward to this post-vax summer isn’t love. It is equivalent to a psychosis caused by fungi.