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๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ~สส สแด แดสแดแดแดsแดษด แดสสษชsแดษชแดษด ษดแดแดสแดsแดษชแดษดแดแด สษชาแด แดแดแดแดส แดสแด สแดแด แดแดสแดแด
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ษชแด แดสแดสแดแด แดแดสแดแด
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ษชแด.แดแดแด แดแดsษชแด @สแดสแดแดษดสแดสสษชแดษดแดแด-xสแดข Imagine walking into a hardware store, buying a perfectly engineered, high-powered drill, bringing it home, and then spending the next twenty years apologizing because it doesn’t make a very good hammer. You try to use it to pound nails. It slips. It ruins the wood. It makes a terrible noise. People watch you and say, “Why can’t you just hit the nail straight like everyone else?” And eventually, you start to believe them. You look at this intricate, powerful tool in your hands and think: I must be broken. That is exactly what you are doing every time you apologize for the "quirks" in your personality. The things you’ve been told are flaws—your sensitivity to loud rooms, your need to retreat after two hours of socializing, your tendency to ove...