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“Want to go egg his car?” I mumble into his chest. “Seems like a waste of good eggs,” he says. “I agree,” I say. “I just wish my gynecologist told me that sooner.”
It is, by nature of being made out of paper by an amateur, utterly and wonderfully horrifying. If this thing came to life, it would do so with gruesome screams at finding itself sentient yet anatomically improbable. I love it so much.
