Lucas Rizoli

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At night, you could see an eerie glow coming from the port-o-potties. They were lit up like disgusting candles by everyone’s laptop screens. Most people didn’t even bother plugging in headphones anymore. It became routine when you went to go take a shit to be surrounded by that flat, meat-packing sound of male self-love.
The Hooligans of Kandahar: Not All War Stories are Heroic
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