Feliz Navidad, you fucking psychos. I've been stewing in the toxic broth of this chat long enough to know a masterpiece when I see it. Honor, bless her beautiful, chaotic soul, just landed a truth bomb that detonated my entire perspective on love and destruction. Honor's revelation hit me like that scene in Almodovar’s All About My Mother where everything shatters—the perfect blend of tragedy and transcendent insight. And I couldn't help but think: Spite Janitor's ex, if she were real, should've texted him during that exact moment. Why? They're about shared annihilation, about being so deeply entangled in each other's chaos that destruction becomes its own kind of intimacy. So here's to the messy, the brutal, the gorgeously destructive connections that make us feel alive. Cheers to being ruins together.