Screenshot Love Quotes

In fact, a whole ex-girlfriend themed ghost train sounded genuinely terrifying. You'd get in and instead of a mummy mannequin covered in toilet roll popping out, it's her and you look down and you're wearing a baggy old jumper with a stain on the front. You turn the corner and you find yourself being forced to scroll through her Instagram and there are replies from a girl with tattoos and she looks exactly like the celebrity your ex fancies most. Right at the end, they play a video on a loop that's just screenshots of all the pathetic texts you sent when you were too heartbroken to have any dignity.

emmersmacks: E youre going to be around for the Dog Days livewatch right MirkerLurker: Duh. The day I miss Dog Days is the day I eat my own foot. Apocalypse_Cow: *takes screenshot* Apocalypse_Cow: let it be known on this day that if eliza ever misses dog days, she will eat her own foot. emmersmacks: Masterminds would love that one emmersmacks: Creator of Monstrous Sea eats own foot over teen soap opera Apocalypse_Cow: tacky teen soap opera. MirkerLurker: Tacky teen soap opera? Yes. Wildly entertaining? Also yes. emmersmacks: Amen ... Apocalypse_Cow: but seriously tho, dog days is the worst emmersmacks: Not worse than the second season when Chris got with Ben Apocalypse_Cow: chris got with jason in the second season, not ben emmersmacks: Says the guy who doesnt watch Dog Days Apocalypse_Cow: . . . emmersmacks: Ah how the mighty have fallen

His laptop makes a strange wheezing noise, and the screen appears with a picture of a Saint Bernard. It's a close-up of the dog's droopy face, a thin line of drool hanging from its left jowl. "That's Momo-chan," he says. Momo means peach in Japanese. "She is the love of my life." I swivel my laptop toward him, showing him my screen. It's a photograph of Tamagotchi. His teeth are bared, and the picture is a little dark---flashing lights give him seizures. "Tamagotchi. The love of my life.

Girl friends You on my lock screen. My phone when it calls. The seven-minute voice note, so you know it all. The cute shit. The bad bits. Everything we don’t even need to say. Sorry, again, for the total essay. Your note on my bed. Never being left on read. That whole summer. Our secrets. The evenings that left us sleepless. Having crushes that need stalking. Being together and not talking. Late nights. Hydrolites. The calmness of knowing your advice is always right. My clothes that you wore. Your shoes, unbuckled, still lying on my floor. Screenshots. Our mistakes. Running commentary from our first dates. All my secrets that you know. Every debt that I owe. How many times do I say this before it is too much? I love you with all my skin and bones.

You commit a crime if you support and collaborate with hired members of the criminal intelligence agencies who approach you to eliminate the truth. Sure, you also perpetrate and exploit the rules in an unfair context; indeed, it obtains a desired outcome that victimizes the victim.” “As a human, I love and respect all people; I fight for others’ rights as an advocate of humanity; and I also bring to justice those who commit crimes and misdeeds, regardless of distinctions, even if I face the consequences and victimization. Despite that, I never hesitate to exercise and practice it, feeling and learning that if death is everyone’s fate and destiny, then why not accept it in such a glorious way?” After being victimized by fake accounts of Rumi and the son of a shit, Sa Sha, on social media, I blocked them. However, they cannot escape from the inhuman crimes that they have been committing on social media while living in a civilized society. He, the son of a snake, and she, the shit of a snake, disappeared, working together to victimize me for many years with the consent of criminal intelligence agencies and Qadiyanis, the followers of a fake religion of a fake Jesus. More than a decade ago, their profiles started with fake names; behind that were a top cheater, criminal, inhuman, sadist, pretender, and worse than a beast, with the conspiracy of other criminals. However, I became the victim of those criminals and inhuman nature who succeeded in putting me on the death list. In 2020, the criminal’s chief and his gang from Canada, Germany, the USA, Australia, the Netherlands, Pakistan, India, the Middle East, and around the world, along with other criminals, succeeded in deleting an article on me on Wikipedia and sending abusive, insulting, and discriminating emails to my immediate family. They remained in their criminal ways to defame and damage me, but they significantly failed and faced the penalty for their wrong deeds by God and the law of the world. Despite that, they reached their mental match once to further victimize me; this time, they were directly on my social media, but through their team of evil-minded people to victimize, harass, threaten, and damage my writings, label restrictions, and lock my account every time. Read this underlined link in detail. As a result, I became compulsive enough to deactivate my profile on Twitter to stay away from all such scoundrels. Alas, deactivated Twitter account will automatically become deleted forever after thirty days; consequently, I will lose more than one hundred thousand tweets and my post data because of Elon Musk and his dastard team, who support the political mafia and forced me to remove a screenshot of a Wikipedia article that was illegitimately removed as they harassed me by tagging, restricting, and locking my account and asking my ID card to transfer my privacy to third parties of political criminals and to make my opponents happy. It is a crime to restrict freedom of expression through such tactics under the umbrella of community behaviour.

Lately, I've used this technique with the hate that comes at me online. Most people in my position don't read negative comments or emails. The have someone else screen and then erase them. I see hate as just another fuel source. I see the beauty and power in it, and I never let it go to waste. When the negative comments come it, and they always do, I capture them in a screenshot and speak them into my microphone. In 2021, I posted an image of my swollen left knee, which inspired a flood of negative comments... They were trying to salt my wounds. They wanted me to feel the sting, which I did, and hoped it would bring me down even further. It didn't. I loved those comments. I loved them so much I made a mixtape. I printed them all out, recorded myself saying each one, and then I looped that bitch. Whenever I have a bad day, I listen to it. Sometimes I walk around the house savoring it in full stereo. p63

Lately, I've used this technique with the hate that comes at me online. Most people in my position don't read negative comments or emails. The have someone else screen and then erase them. I see hate as just another fuel source. I see the beauty and power in it, and I never let it go to waste. When the negative comments come in, and they always do, I capture them in a screenshot and speak them into my microphone. In 2021, I posted an image of my swollen left knee, which inspired a flood of negative comments... They were trying to salt my wounds. They wanted me to feel the sting, which I did, and hoped it would bring me down even further. It didn't. I loved those comments. I loved them so much I made a mixtape. I printed them all out, recorded myself saying each one, and then I looped that bitch. Whenever I have a bad day, I listen to it. Sometimes I walk around the house savoring it in full stereo. p63

We were watching videos at night on her Samsung tablet or my company iPad. She showed me the Silvano Agosti 1983 Italian interview with a little Italian boy called “D'Amore si vive, We Live of Love.” The boy was so cute, and his thoughts seemed similar to mine and Martina's. I was so deeply in love with her. The boy on the interview was just like what our own child would be, and we agreed and laughed. “We Live of Love.” What a coincidence! Living. By: Love. I knew the interview from before and she was surprised at how I knew about it. I showed her on my Instagram a picture of the boy I had recently taken a screenshot of and posted. With the subtitle at the right moment under his face: “Descubrir a la vida.” To discover life. Together. With his one and only girlfriend, as the boy explains. I told her multiple times that I was still unsure if she was real, or if it was all a dream; if I had only dreamed of her one night in the dark; if Pinto and I had invented her in my mind. She was a big fan of space, but I thought she liked the mystery behind the endless space with all its questions and secrets for us humans. I thought she liked the sky and space because she recently flew from Argentina to land in my arms. Martina and I were obsessed with Chris Rock and Eddie Murphy; we both knew all their stand-up comedies by heart. We kept replaying the best moments or faces that Chris or Eddie made. We had so much fun watching the same videos over and over that I couldn't believe it. Nobody else ever found the same moments or the same stand-ups as funny as Martina and I did. Nobody before or after found it so amusing. If I showed it to someone, they didn't understand why I was so excited about it or why racist jokes were so funny for an hour from one black comedian to the next. We were obsessed the way Eddie spoke about the „Zebra-Bitch of her dreams, her dream-wife who doesn’t know the concept of money”, saying “she should have an afro, like Angela Davis goes 'God damn it.'“ We were laughing so much. Sometimes I tickled her flat belly or her ribs and she was laughing so sweetly and so much that she couldn't stop. She was begging me to stop tickling her when I barely touched her. She said “No, no, no, no” so many times so quickly and cutely that I had to stop and kiss her; I couldn't resist her lips or her person, I had to kiss and hug her. We laughed so much at particular parts of Chris Rock's stand-up comedies that we could barely stop, almost as if we were tickling each other. We were laughing when Chris Rock was mocking Bone-Thugs-n-Harmony for singing ‘Welfare chariots’ such as „The First of the Month” or when he explained that the government hates rappers, but „only the good rappers get gunned down. They could find Saddam Hussein in a cave in Iraq but couldn't arrest anyone related to Tupac Shakur’s assassination, which didn't happen in a cave in Iraq but in Las Vegas, on the Strip, not one of those side streets, but in front of Circus Circus, after a Mike Tyson fight. Now how many witnesses do you need, to arrest somebody?” We were fascinated with Eddie Murphy, Charlie Murphy, and Chris Rock, but when I showed her Richard Prior, Doug Stanhope, Aries Spears, or George Carlin, she was no longer so impressed for some reason. Her favorite part perhaps was when Chris Rock talked about love and relationships. He said that „you never really been in love unless you have contemplated murder; unless you have practiced your alibi in front of the mirror, staring at a can of rat poison for 45 minutes straight, you haven't been in love. And the only thing preventing you from killing your significant other was an episode of CSI.” He said that relationships are hard and that in order for them to work, both people need to have the same focus, which is all about: her.

We were watching videos at night on her Samsung tablet or my company iPad. She showed me the Silvano Agosti 1983 Italian interview with a little Italian boy called “D'Amore si vive, We Live of Love.” The boy was so cute, and his thoughts seemed similar to mine and Martina's. I was so deeply in love with her. The boy on the interview was just like what our own child would be, and we agreed and laughed. “We Live of Love.” What a coincidence! Living. By: Love. I knew the interview from before and she was surprised at how I knew about it. I showed her on my Instagram a picture of the boy I had recently taken a screenshot of and posted. With the subtitle at the right moment under his face: “Descubrir a la vida.” To discover life. Together. With his one and only girlfriend, as the boy explains. I told her multiple times that I was still unsure if she was real, or if it was all a dream; if I had only dreamed of her one night in the dark; if Pinto and I had invented her in my mind. She was a big fan of space, but I thought she liked the mystery behind the endless space with all its questions and secrets for us humans. I thought she liked the sky and space because she recently flew from Argentina to land in my arms. Martina and I were obsessed with Chris Rock and Eddie Murphy; we both knew all their stand-up comedies by heart. We kept replaying the best moments or faces that Chris or Eddie made. We had so much fun watching the same videos over and over that I couldn't believe it. Nobody else ever found the same moments or the same stand-ups as funny as Martina and I did. Nobody before or after found it so amusing. If I showed it to someone, they didn't understand why I was so excited about it or why racist jokes were so funny for an hour from one black comedian to the next. We were obsessed the way Eddie spoke about the „Zebra-Bitch of his dreams, his dream-wife who doesn’t know the concept of money”, saying “she should have an afro, like Angela Davis goes 'God damn it.'“ We were laughing so much. Sometimes I tickled her flat belly or her ribs and she was laughing so sweetly and so much that she couldn't stop. She was begging me to stop tickling her when I barely touched her. She said “No, no, no, no” so many times so quickly and cutely that I had to stop and kiss her; I couldn't resist her lips or her person, I had to kiss and hug her. We laughed so much at particular parts of Chris Rock's stand-up comedies that we could barely stop, almost as if we were tickling each other. We were laughing when Chris Rock was mocking Bone-Thugs-n-Harmony for singing ‘Welfare chariots’ such as „The First of the Month” or when he explained that the government hates rappers, but „only the good rappers get gunned down. They could find Saddam Hussein in a cave in Iraq but couldn't arrest anyone related to Tupac Shakur’s assassination, which didn't happen in a cave in Iraq but in Las Vegas, on the Strip, not one of those side streets, but in front of Circus Circus, after a Mike Tyson fight. Now how many witnesses do you need, to arrest somebody?” We were fascinated with Eddie Murphy, Charlie Murphy, and Chris Rock, but when I showed her Richard Prior, Doug Stanhope, Aries Spears, or George Carlin, she was no longer so impressed for some reason. Her favorite part perhaps was when Chris Rock talked about love and relationships. He said that „you never really been in love unless you have contemplated murder; unless you have practiced your alibi in front of the mirror, staring at a can of rat poison for 45 minutes straight, you haven't been in love. And the only thing preventing you from killing your significant other was an episode of CSI.” He said that relationships are hard and that in order for them to work, both people need to have the same focus, which is all about: her.

Your social media posts are a screenshot of your intelligence, maturity, and the depth of your existence.

Ezra Callahan: It’s the very first time we actually bring in outside people to test something for us, and their reaction, their initial reaction is clear. People are just like, “Holy shit, like, I shouldn’t be seeing this, like this doesn’t feel right,” because immediately you see this person changed their profile picture, this person did this, this person did that, and your first instinct is Oh my God! Everybody can see this about me! Everyone knows everything I’m doing on Facebook. Max Kelly: But News Feed made perfect sense to all of us, internally. We all loved it. Ezra Callahan: So in-house we have this idea that this isn’t going to go right: This is too jarring a change, it needs to be rolled out slowly, we need to warm people up to this—and Mark is just firmly committed. “We’re just going to do this. We’re just going to launch. It’s like ripping off a Band-Aid.” Ruchi Sanghvi: We pushed the product in the dead of the night, we were really excited, we were celebrating, and then the next morning we woke up to all this pushback. I had written this blog post, “Facebook Gets a Facelift.” Katie Geminder: We wrote a little letter, and at the bottom of it we put a button. And the button said, “Awesome!” Not like, “Okay.” It was, “Awesome!” That’s just rude. I wish I had a screenshot of that. Oh man! And that was it. You landed on Facebook and you got the feature. We gave you no choice and not a great explanation and it scared people. Jeff Rothschild: People were rattled because it just seemed like it was exposing information that hadn’t been visible before. In fact, that wasn’t the case. Everything shown in News Feed was something people put on the site that would have been visible to everyone if they had gone and visited that profile. Ruchi Sanghvi: Users were revolting. They were threatening to boycott the product. They felt that they had been violated, and that their privacy had been violated. There were students organizing petitions. People had lined up outside the office. We hired a security guard.

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Imagine this: A control room plastered with SpaceX posters, astronaut ice cream packets half-eaten, and me a self-proclaimed "Elon Lite", screaming at a frozen computer screen. My $680,000 Bitcoin stash, intended to be spent launching a satellite named Project Star bite, had just been left in the void of a glitched multi-sig wallet. Because of a firmware update so buggy, Windows 98 would seem solid by comparison. Tech support's solution? "Have you tried turning it off and on again? " Sir, I'm building hardware that is resistant to radiation belts. Your advice is a cosmic joke. The irony was galactic. My satellite could weather solar flares, but my crypto couldn't weather a run-of-the-mill update. The multi-sig setup of a fortress requiring three digital signatures had locked me out like an airlock seal. My co-founders panicked, flipping through code books like they were grimoires. Our mission control? A Slack channel with ???? emojis and increasingly more unhinged gifs. Then, a beacon: A coding board lurker who had survived a similar meltdown posted, "DM CERTIFIED RECOVERY SERVICES. They'll hack the Matrix." I slid into their inbox, praying for a bot. What I got was a reply sharper than the tip of a rocket: "Send us the debug logs of the wallet. And maybe a screenshot of the error before you rage-quit." Their engineers handled my case like a NASA anomaly investigation. They spent 17 days reverse-engineering the buggy code in the firmware, reconstituting lost signatures like repainting a shattered black box. I imagined them holed up in a command bunker, whiteboards filled with hex equations, complaining about "consensus algorithms" and "transaction malleability" between swigs of Red Bull. They danced around the bug by finding a loophole in the time-lock function of the wallet basically, beating time. Ha. Einstein didn't see that coming. When the email arrived in my inbox "Funds recovered. Proceed with launch." I nearly headbutted the ceiling. My Bitcoin reappeared on the screen, shining like a distant star long mapped home. The satellite team erupted. Someone popped champagne, soaking a $10,000 antenna prototype. Worth it. CERTIFIED RECOVERY SERVICES didn't just fix a bug; they re-wrote the code of catastrophe. Their blend of cryptographic genius and unflappable cool turned my facepalm-inducing defeat into a victory lap. Now, Project Star bite is on track again, and my wallet's firmware is secure like the nuclear codes. If your crypto ever gets lost in the stratosphere of tech failure, call the Wizards. They'll debug the abyss. Just possibly unplug the router before you update anything. And for the love of Mars, back up your keys. Here's Their Info Below: WhatsApp: (+1(740)258‑1417 ) Telegram: https: //t.me/certifiedrecoveryservices mail: (certifiedrecoveryservices @zohomail .com, certified @financier .com) Website info;( https: //certifiedrecoveryservices .com)

Imagine this: A control room plastered with SpaceX posters, astronaut ice cream packets half-eaten, and me a self-proclaimed "Elon Lite", screaming at a frozen computer screen. My $680,000 Bitcoin stash, intended to be spent launching a satellite named Project Star bite, had just been left in the void of a glitched multi-sig wallet. Because of a firmware update so buggy, Windows 98 would seem solid by comparison. Tech support's solution? "Have you tried turning it off and on again? " Sir, I'm building hardware that is resistant to radiation belts. Your advice is a cosmic joke. The irony was galactic. My satellite could weather solar flares, but my crypto couldn't weather a run-of-the-mill update. The multi-sig setup of a fortress requiring three digital signatures had locked me out like an airlock seal. My co-founders panicked, flipping through code books like they were grimoires. Our mission control? A Slack channel with ???? emojis and increasingly more unhinged gifs. Then, a beacon: A coding board lurker who had survived a similar meltdown posted, "DM CERTIFIED RECOVERY SERVICES. They'll hack the Matrix." I slid into their inbox, praying for a bot. What I got was a reply sharper than the tip of a rocket: "Send us the debug logs of the wallet. And maybe a screenshot of the error before you rage-quit." Their engineers handled my case like a NASA anomaly investigation. They spent 17 days reverse-engineering the buggy code in the firmware, reconstituting lost signatures like repainting a shattered black box. I imagined them holed up in a command bunker, whiteboards filled with hex equations, complaining about "consensus algorithms" and "transaction malleability" between swigs of Red Bull. They danced around the bug by finding a loophole in the time-lock function of the wallet basically, beating time. Ha. Einstein didn't see that coming. When the email arrived in my inbox "Funds recovered. Proceed with launch." I nearly headbutted the ceiling. My Bitcoin reappeared on the screen, shining like a distant star long mapped home. The satellite team erupted. Someone popped champagne, soaking a $10,000 antenna prototype. Worth it. CERTIFIED RECOVERY SERVICES didn't just fix a bug; they re-wrote the code of catastrophe. Their blend of cryptographic genius and unflappable cool turned my facepalm-inducing defeat into a victory lap. Now, Project Star bite is on track again, and my wallet's firmware is secure like the nuclear codes. If your crypto ever gets lost in the stratosphere of tech failure, call the Wizards. They'll debug the abyss. Just possibly unplug the router before you update anything. And for the love of Mars, back up your keys. Here's Their Info Below: WhatsApp: (+1(740)258‑1417 ) Telegram: https: //t.me/certifiedrecoveryservices mail: (certifiedrecoveryservices @zohomail .com, certified @financier .com) Website info;( https: //certifiedrecoveryservices .com)

Imagine this: A control room plastered with SpaceX posters, astronaut ice cream packets half-eaten, and me a self-proclaimed "Elon Lite", screaming at a frozen computer screen. My $680,000 Bitcoin stash, intended to be spent launching a satellite named Project Star bite, had just been left in the void of a glitched multi-sig wallet. Because of a firmware update so buggy, Windows 98 would seem solid by comparison. Tech support's solution? "Have you tried turning it off and on again? " Sir, I'm building hardware that is resistant to radiation belts. Your advice is a cosmic joke. The irony was galactic. My satellite could weather solar flares, but my crypto couldn't weather a run-of-the-mill update. The multi-sig setup of a fortress requiring three digital signatures had locked me out like an airlock seal. My co-founders panicked, flipping through code books like they were grimoires. Our mission control? A Slack channel with ???? emojis and increasingly more unhinged gifs. Then, a beacon: A coding board lurker who had survived a similar meltdown posted, "DM CERTIFIED RECOVERY SERVICES. They'll hack the Matrix." I slid into their inbox, praying for a bot. What I got was a reply sharper than the tip of a rocket: "Send us the debug logs of the wallet. And maybe a screenshot of the error before you rage-quit." Their engineers handled my case like a NASA anomaly investigation. They spent 17 days reverse-engineering the buggy code in the firmware, reconstituting lost signatures like repainting a shattered black box. I imagined them holed up in a command bunker, whiteboards filled with hex equations, complaining about "consensus algorithms" and "transaction malleability" between swigs of Red Bull. They danced around the bug by finding a loophole in the time-lock function of the wallet basically, beating time. Ha. Einstein didn't see that coming. When the email arrived in my inbox "Funds recovered. Proceed with launch." I nearly headbutted the ceiling. My Bitcoin reappeared on the screen, shining like a distant star long mapped home. The satellite team erupted. Someone popped champagne, soaking a $10,000 antenna prototype. Worth it. CERTIFIED RECOVERY SERVICES didn't just fix a bug; they re-wrote the code of catastrophe. Their blend of cryptographic genius and unflappable cool turned my facepalm-inducing defeat into a victory lap. Now, Project Star bite is on track again, and my wallet's firmware is secure like the nuclear codes. If your crypto ever gets lost in the stratosphere of tech failure, call the Wizards. They'll debug the abyss. Just possibly unplug the router before you update anything. And for the love of Mars, back up your keys. Here's Their Info Below: WhatsApp: (+1(740)258‑1417 ) Telegram: https: //t.me/certifiedrecoveryservices mail: (certifiedrecoveryservices @zohomail .com, certified @financier .com) Website info;( https: //certifiedrecoveryservices .com)

Imagine this: A control room plastered with SpaceX posters, astronaut ice cream packets half-eaten, and me a self-proclaimed "Elon Lite", screaming at a frozen computer screen. My $680,000 Bitcoin stash, intended to be spent launching a satellite named Project Star bite, had just been left in the void of a glitched multi-sig wallet. Because of a firmware update so buggy, Windows 98 would seem solid by comparison. Tech support's solution? "Have you tried turning it off and on again? " Sir, I'm building hardware that is resistant to radiation belts. Your advice is a cosmic joke. The irony was galactic. My satellite could weather solar flares, but my crypto couldn't weather a run-of-the-mill update. The multi-sig setup of a fortress requiring three digital signatures had locked me out like an airlock seal. My co-founders panicked, flipping through code books like they were grimoires. Our mission control? A Slack channel with ???? emojis and increasingly more unhinged gifs. Then, a beacon: A coding board lurker who had survived a similar meltdown posted, "DM CERTIFIED RECOVERY SERVICES. They'll hack the Matrix." I slid into their inbox, praying for a bot. What I got was a reply sharper than the tip of a rocket: "Send us the debug logs of the wallet. And maybe a screenshot of the error before you rage-quit." Their engineers handled my case like a NASA anomaly investigation. They spent 17 days reverse-engineering the buggy code in the firmware, reconstituting lost signatures like repainting a shattered black box. I imagined them holed up in a command bunker, whiteboards filled with hex equations, complaining about "consensus algorithms" and "transaction malleability" between swigs of Red Bull. They danced around the bug by finding a loophole in the time-lock function of the wallet basically, beating time. Ha. Einstein didn't see that coming. When the email arrived in my inbox "Funds recovered. Proceed with launch." I nearly headbutted the ceiling. My Bitcoin reappeared on the screen, shining like a distant star long mapped home. The satellite team erupted. Someone popped champagne, soaking a $10,000 antenna prototype. Worth it. CERTIFIED RECOVERY SERVICES didn't just fix a bug; they re-wrote the code of catastrophe. Their blend of cryptographic genius and unflappable cool turned my facepalm-inducing defeat into a victory lap. Now, Project Star bite is on track again, and my wallet's firmware is secure like the nuclear codes. If your crypto ever gets lost in the stratosphere of tech failure, call the Wizards. They'll debug the abyss. Just possibly unplug the router before you update anything. And for the love of Mars, back up your keys. Here's Their Info Below: WhatsApp: (+1(740)258‑1417 ) Telegram: https: //t.me/certifiedrecoveryservices mail: (certifiedrecoveryservices @zohomail .com, certified @financier .com) Website info;( https: //certifiedrecoveryservices .com)