F*ck, Dicer, I have to say what everyone else is too chickensh*t to say—it's over.
I'm 39, like roflmao_tsetung, and we both have squandered away the last few minutes of happiness with a hot iron (steam off) and plastic beads. So has PunkicCyborg.
Sparky lost it a decade before us, sadly.
Sure, you think you're fine today—but, next thing you know, you'll be inhaling acrid fumes as those cute little beads melt behind the parchment paper.
If you are confused about the meaningless of life—especially yours and mine—in the empty void, don't worry, you'll understand soon enough.
The.
End.
Happy.
Birthday.