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yer most epic time in gunrox! XD
just when i was about to lose everythin good in my units inventory(seeing that i only had 1 unit left with low hp),an enemy spotted me!(hey that rhymes)and then shot!but i was lucky cause only scratch.then it was my turn.shot him hard with a critical and i won!then i lvl up😁 oh and btw if you mods think this thread is retarded,plz delete this thread😁
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i had one unit on to 2 they did some scratch and i did some critical and won also one on one i had low health enemy had poison knive they nearly killed me i had one health left i had shot gun he had just below halfway health and killed him so close for me😁
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koth 11/12 to me i needed 1 turn to stay at zone for win..
it was 1v1 he had full hp i had something like 50...
he was at the zone and camp till 11/12
so in last turn i ran to zone near him he had colt+shotgun and didnt kill me =]
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I played a 2vs2 and my teammate was a Portugese-only speaking guy (surprise). He started closer to the enemy than me and just rushed all his 3 units in between the 2 opponent players' units and used all his AP's on shooting and not thinking about going to cover or not placing his units to close at all. 1 round later all his units was dead and they only did minor damage to the enemy.... So a pretty bad start on the match - the cool thing was that even though it was now 6vs3 I won the match in the end 😎
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what is this? kind of support group?😁
this is part of my favorite book
BOB'S BIG ARMS were closed around to hold me inside, and I was squeezed in the dark between Bob's new sweating tits that hang enormous, the way we think of God's as big. Going around the church basement full of men, each night we met: this is Art, this is Paul, this is Bob; Bob's big shoulders made me think of the
horizon. Bob's thick blond hair was what you get when hair cream calls itself sculpting mousse, so thick and blond and the part is so straight.
His arms wrapped around me, Bob's hand palms my head against the new tits sprouted on his barrel chest.
"It will be alright," Bob says. "You cry now."
From my knees to my forehead, I feel chemical reactions within Bob burning food and oxygen.
"Maybe they got it all early enough," Bob says. "Maybe it's just seminoma. With seminoma, you have almost a hundred percent survival rate."
Bob's shoulders inhale themselves up in a long draw, then drop, drop, drop in jerking sobs. Draw themselves up. Drop, drop, drop.
I've been coming here every week for two years, and every week Bob wraps his arms around me, and I cry.
"You cry," Bob says and inhales and sob, sob, sobs. "Go on now and cry."
The big wet face settles down on top of my head, and I am lost inside. This is when I'd cry. Crying is right at hand in the smothering dark, closed inside someone else, when you see how everything you can ever accomplish will end up as trash.
Anything you're ever proud of will be thrown away.
And I'm lost inside.
This is as close as I've been to sleeping in almost a week.
This is how I met Marla Singer.
Bob cries because six months ago, his testicles were removed. Then hormone support therapy. Bob has tits because his testosterone ration is too high. Raise the testosterone level too much, your body ups the estrogen to seek a balance.
This is when I'd cry because right now, your life comes down to nothing, and not even nothing, oblivion.
Too much estrogen, and you get bitch tits.
It's easy to cry when you realize that everyone you love will reject you or die. On a long enough time line, the survival rate for everyone will drop to zero.
Bob loves me because he thinks my testicles were removed, too.
Around us in the Trinity Episcopal basement with the thrift store plaid sofas are maybe twenty men and only one woman, all of them clung together in pairs, most of them crying. Some pairs lean forward, heads pressed ear-to-ear, the way wrestlers stand, locked. The man with the only woman plants his elbows on her shoulders; one elbow on either side of her head, her head between his hands, and his face crying against her neck. The woman's face twists off to one side and her hand brings up a cigarette.
I peek out from under the armpit of Big Bob.
"All my life," Bob cries. "Why I do anything, I don't know."
The only woman here at Remaining Men Together, the testicular cancer support group, this woman smokes her cigarette under the burden of a stranger, and her eyes come together with mine.
Faker.
Faker.
Faker.
Short matte black hair, big eyes the way they are in Japanese animation, skim milk thin, buttermilk sallow in her dress with a wallpaper pattern of dark roses, this woman was also in my tuberculosis support group Friday night. She was in my melanoma round table Wednesday night. Monday night she was in my Firm Believers leukemia rap group. The part down the center of her hair is a crooked lightning bolt of white scalp.
When you look for these support groups, they all have vague upbeat names. My Thursday evening group for blood parasites, it's called Free and Clear.
The group I go to for brain parasites is called Above and Beyond.
And Sunday afternoon at Remaining Men Together in the basement of Trinity Episcopal, this woman is here, again.
Worse than that, I can't cry with her watching.
This should be my favorite part, being held and crying with Big Bob without hope. We all work so hard all the time. This is the only pl
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i had 1 unit vs 2
he shot me and i had 1 hp
then he go disc 😁 😁
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Uncountable moments xD !
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