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Joined Apr '17
'𝔗𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔩𝔞𝔰𝔱 𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔢𝔯, 𝔏𝔢𝔣𝔱 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔢; 𝔄𝔩𝔩 𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔩𝔶 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔭𝔞𝔫𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰 𝔄𝔯𝔢 𝔣𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔡 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔤𝔬𝔫𝔢; 𝔑𝔬 𝔣𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔯 𝔬𝔣 𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔡, 𝔑𝔬 𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔢-𝔟𝔲𝔡 𝔦𝔰 𝔫𝔦𝔤𝔥, 𝔗𝔬 𝔯𝔢𝔣𝔩𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔟𝔞𝔠𝔨 𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔟𝔩𝔲𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔰 𝔒𝔯 𝔤𝔦𝔳𝔢 𝔰𝔦𝔤𝔥 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔰𝔦𝔤𝔥! ℑ'𝔩𝔩 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔢, 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔲 𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔬𝔫𝔢. 𝔗𝔬 𝔭𝔦𝔫𝔢 𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔪; 𝔖𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔩𝔶 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔰𝔩𝔢𝔢𝔭𝔦𝔫𝔤, 𝔊𝔬, 𝔰𝔩𝔢𝔢𝔭 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔪; 𝔗𝔥𝔲𝔰 𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔡𝔩𝔶 ℑ 𝔰𝔠𝔞𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔗𝔥𝔶 𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔰 𝔬'𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔡, 𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔶 𝔪𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔤𝔞𝔯𝔡𝔢𝔫 𝔏𝔦𝔢 𝔰𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔡.