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See, that’s what the app is perfect for.

Sounds perfect Wahhhh, I don’t wanna
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loathsome-aesthete

Keevan, stretched languidly across a breathing throne, built of kneeling and prostrating Jem’hadar, in a shell pink pyjama set, stained from swaying foot to sculpted cheek with droplets of the ripple berry fizz he slapped from Weyoun’s hands fifteen minutes prior, without provocation: Borath, do you ever get the feeling that I am not well liked? 

Borath, a motherly voice from the overhead screen: …No, Keevan.