Done. Done. Done. Done. DONE.
Did I also mention that I’m really fucking done? Because I happen to be.
Blest who was youthful in his youth; blest who matured at the right time; who gradually the chill of life with years was able to withstand; who never was addicted to strange dreams; who did not shun the fashionable rabble; who was at twenty fop or blade, and then at thirty, profitably married; who rid himself at fifty of private and of other debts; who fame, money, and rank in due course calmly gained; about whom lifelong one kept saying: [he] is an excellent man. Aleksandr Pushkin, Eugene Onegin, Ch. 8, Verse X
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