αΆ¦ α΅α΅α΅βΏ Κ·Κ°α΅ α΅α΅ αΆ¦ α΅α΅ Κ²α΅α΅α΅α΅ α΅Κ°α΅ αΆ Κ³α΅α΅α΅Λ’ αΆα΅α΅αΆ¦βΏα΅ α΅βΏα΅ α΅α΅αΆ¦βΏα΅ α΅Κ³α΅α΅βΏα΅ Κ°α΅Κ³α΅ αΆ¦ Λ’α΅αΆ¦Λ‘Λ‘ Λ‘αΆ¦α΅α΅ αΆ¦βΏ α΅Κ°α΅ α΅α΅α΅α΅α΅α΅βΏ α΅Κ³α΅βΏΛ£
Something must be in the air lately because it's either:
- i feel nothin'.
- sleep all day.
- the urge to bite someone full force.
That's... a way to look at it, sure.
As for the 'why' of it, complicated. Always been the case ever since he was a little pupβ er, kid.
Probably a sense of inspiration, the little guy standing up against all odds. The drive to win?
Late night-morning. Even with the club's medic working on himβ miracle workers, he swears it, he looked a bloodied mess. But damn if that wasn't a spar he so desperately needed.
Hardly even made it past the living room before crashing right on the sofa.
β β β β β β β Ain't for him, sorry. π§
There's a certain catharsis that comes from swinging 'til muscles screams to stop. Nothing' else beats it.
... well. Maybe the drinks as an after. As a treat.
Pros of Halloween is that nobody bothers you about the costume.
Cons being they're so damn critical.










