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My sloth levels know no bounds

I'm working on a brutally dull project at work that saps the life out of me. I come home at night, change into jammies, and just sloth it. I have ordered takeout the past five nights and haven't cleaned. Styrofoam trays are everywhere. My living room smells of old french fry grease. I am eating onion rings from a styrofoam tray balanced on my gut while typing on Datalounge. God, does life get any lower?


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