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me irl: do i just kill myself already To be, or not to be. That is the question: whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them to die to sleep no more and by a sleep to say we end the heartache, and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished to die to sleep to sleep perchance to dream; ay, there's the rub for in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuftled off this mortal col must give us pause. There's the respect that makes calamity of so long life for who would bear the whips and scoms of time th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely the pangs of despised love, the law's delay the insolence of office, and the spums that patient merit of th unworthy takes when he himselt might his quietus make with a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear to grunt and sweat under a weary lfe but that the dread of something after death the undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveller retums. puzzles the will and makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of? thus conscience does make cowards of us all and thus the native hue of resolution is sickled o'er with the pałe cast of thought and enterprise of great pitch and moment with this regard their currents tum awry and lose the name of action. Soft you now, rhe air Ophelia! nmph. in thy orisons be all my sins remembered. me irl

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me irl: do i just kill myself already To be, or not to be. That is the question: whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them to die to sleep no more and by a sleep to say we end the heartache, and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished to die to sleep to sleep perchance to dream; ay, there's the rub for in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuftled off this mortal col must give us pause. There's the respect that makes calamity of so long life for who would bear the whips and scoms of time th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely the pangs of despised love, the law's delay the insolence of office, and the spums that patient merit of th unworthy takes when he himselt might his quietus make with a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear to grunt and sweat under a weary lfe but that the dread of something after death the undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveller retums. puzzles the will and makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of? thus conscience does make cowards of us all and thus the native hue of resolution is sickled o'er with the pałe cast of thought and enterprise of great pitch and moment with this regard their currents tum awry and lose the name of action. Soft you now, rhe air Ophelia! nmph. in thy orisons be all my sins remembered. me irl

me irl

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<p>Relatable</p>: do i just kill myself already To be, or not to be. That is the question: whether tis nobler in the mind to suter the sings and aows of outrageous tortune or to take ams against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them to de to sleep no more and by a sleep to say we end the heartache. and the thousand natural shocks that fesh is heir to 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished to die to sleep to sleep perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub for in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuted off this mortal ool must give us pause. There's the respect that makes calamity of so long lite for who would beor the whips and sooms of time th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely the pangs of despised love, the law's delay the insolence of office, and the spuns that patient merit of th' unworthy takes when he himself might his quietus make with a bore bockin? Who would fardels bear to grunt and sweat under a weary e but that the dread of something after death the undiscovered country, from whose boum no traveller retuns, puzzles the will and makes us rather bear those äls we have than fy to others that we know not of? thus conscience does make cowards of us all and thus the native hue of resolution is sickied o'er with the pale cast ot thought and enterprise of great pitch and moment with this regard their currents tum awry and lose the name of action, Sot you now, he air Ophelial nmph, in thy crisons be all my sins remembered <p>Relatable</p>
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