When I was a little child I would run an intricate sequence of images through my head: I would picture that my dad took me to a playground, let me play for a while, and then he would strangle me. This rather dark fantasy would amuse me to no end. I would cry, but I would keep on repeating the sequence of images in my head: He would put his hands around my neck and squeeze with all his strength, he would clamp down so hard that his face would turn red from the effort, his eyes would bulge and his mouth would twist. And I would keep thinking why oh why are you killing me daddy?
And now the same passage in leet:
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I'll punish mysqlf for writing things like that by listening to postgressive retro for hours on end, and eat and eat until I die of odbcecity. Ah, 2B Thin again, scribble scribble.