I don’t handle stress well. Have a good laugh at that, because it was a joke. No no, in reality it’s much, much worse than “not well”. I react to stress the way I imagine an infant would react if he were being charged by a pack of flaming rhinos who wouldn’t halt until he solved a Rubik’s cube. I go through my own Kubler-Ross series of emotional processing.
They’re certainly not going to continue running at me. Surely they’ll tire or get distracted or have a sudden hankering for a cheeseburger.
How are they still running?! Don’t they realize they’re on fire?!
God damnit, I got the green, but then to get the blue, I have to ruin the green. Who came up with this hell toy, anyway?
THEY ARE NOT THAT FAR OFF AND THEY ARE STILL AFLAME
I will craft…
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