SoyBooru
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Chud: Jimbo fat raisinskin GEEEEEEEEG
happyredditor: this is true i saw it happen or something
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hotdoghead: let jimbo only breathe through a straw for the rest of his life
YobaPeaches156: how felipe nuts
congo_aryan: nice funny skit jimbo made
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Chud: 
In Loving Memory of Ascence
We stand here not to romanticize Ascence, but to face him as he was.
Unlike Jimbo, who at least carried some warmth in his simplicity, Ascence's body was a prison, bloated, sluggish, and a constant reminder of the genes and choices stacked against him. He wasn't graceful, he wasn't strong, and life never gave him the tools to hide it.
Of African blood, he clung to his ancestry because it was the only crown he could wear. The food, the music, the echoes of a stronger lineage, these were sparks of dignity in a life otherwise weighed down by his own flesh. Meals with him were never elegant, but they were real: heavy plates, heavy silences, heavy truths.
Ascence had no charm to polish the rough edges. His smell lingered, his presence was awkward, and his honesty often cut deeper than anyone wanted. People either turned away or endured him. He was not loved by many, but he was never fake. That, at least, was his defiance.
In the end, he couldn't carry the weight anymore. Suicide was his exit, brutal and final. Maybe it was the only way he saw to strip himself of the body and the burdens that dragged him through every day. We don't pretend to understand, but we don't lie either: life broke him.
Still, there's something to take from him. Ascence lived without masks, even when that rawness made him unbearable. He forced the world to see him as he wasz ugly, flawed, but unfiltered. And that kind of truth, however hard to swallow, is rare.
Rest now, Ascence.
You were no hero, but you were real. And in a world full of liars and pretenders, even your raw imperfection deserves to be remembered.
congo_aryan: jimbo and her friends
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Chud: Nusois still think brapscence from the 'ru is the musician and not a random dude who named himself after said artist
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Chud: jimbrap larping as ASS SCENTS
Dunchenman:
We stand here not to romanticize Ascence, but to face him as he was.
Unlike Jimbo, who at least carried some warmth in his simplicity, Ascence's body was a prison, bloated, sluggish, and a constant reminder of the genes and choices stacked against him. He wasn't graceful, he wasn't strong, and life never gave him the tools to hide it.
Of African blood, he clung to his ancestry because it was the only crown he could wear. The food, the music, the echoes of a stronger lineage, these were sparks of dignity in a life otherwise weighed down by his own flesh. Meals with him were never elegant, but they were real: heavy plates, heavy silences, heavy truths.
Ascence had no charm to polish the rough edges. His smell lingered, his presence was awkward, and his honesty often cut deeper than anyone wanted. People either turned away or endured him. He was not loved by many, but he was never fake. That, at least, was his defiance.
In the end, he couldn't carry the weight anymore. Suicide was his exit, brutal and final. Maybe it was the only way he saw to strip himself of the body and the burdens that dragged him through every day. We don't pretend to understand, but we don't lie either: life broke him.
Still, there's something to take from him. Ascence lived without masks, even when that rawness made him unbearable. He forced the world to see him as he wasz ugly, flawed, but unfiltered. And that kind of truth, however hard to swallow, is rare.
Rest now, Ascence.
You were no hero, but you were real. And in a world full of liars and pretenders, even your raw imperfection deserves to be remembered.
In Loving Memory of Ascence
We stand here not to romanticize Ascence, but to face him as he was.
Unlike Jimbo, who at least carried some warmth in his simplicity, Ascence's body was a prison, bloated, sluggish, and a constant reminder of the genes and choices stacked against him. He wasn't graceful, he wasn't strong, and life never gave him the tools to hide it.
Of African blood, he clung to his ancestry because it was the only crown he could wear. The food, the music, the echoes of a stronger lineage, these were sparks of dignity in a life otherwise weighed down by his own flesh. Meals with him were never elegant, but they were real: heavy plates, heavy silences, heavy truths.
Ascence had no charm to polish the rough edges. His smell lingered, his presence was awkward, and his honesty often cut deeper than anyone wanted. People either turned away or endured him. He was not loved by many, but he was never fake. That, at least, was his defiance.
In the end, he couldn't carry the weight anymore. Suicide was his exit, brutal and final. Maybe it was the only way he saw to strip himself of the body and the burdens that dragged him through every day. We don't pretend to understand, but we don't lie either: life broke him.
Still, there's something to take from him. Ascence lived without masks, even when that rawness made him unbearable. He forced the world to see him as he wasz ugly, flawed, but unfiltered. And that kind of truth, however hard to swallow, is rare.
Rest now, Ascence.
You were no hero, but you were real. And in a world full of liars and pretenders, even your raw imperfection deserves to be remembered.
congo_aryan: jimbo is a music producer?
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Chud: Is he gonna be fingering his vagina to fundemental paper education
happyredditor: panama is gemmy or something
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Chud: 
100 Brimstone creepypasta get isn't even a real creepypasta yet.
Make the finished product already you ADHD specialgod.
congo_aryan: jimbo is SpateHicks?
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Chud: boring website
Joe_Barbaro: so he was actually big boned and not obese?
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Chud: Venezuelan mutt
Poopandblackpipodying: geg, he looks like the skeleton from medievil
congo_aryan: jimbo's skeleton
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TermiteSilva: @nophono_cares_fan:
We gather with heavy hearts to remember jimbo-a man who lived simply but left a lasting mark on those who truly saw him. Short in stature and chubby in frame, he resided in a modest hut, lived on his own terms, and walked through life with a spirit that was raw, real, and entirely his.
In Loving Memory Of Jimbo
We gather with heavy hearts to remember jimbo-a man who lived simply but left a lasting mark on those who truly saw him. Short in stature and chubby in frame, he resided in a modest hut, lived on his own terms, and walked through life with a spirit that was raw, real, and entirely his.
Of African descent, jimbo cherished his roots and found deep joy in the bold, comforting flavors of Afro cuisine. Meals with him were more than sustenance-they were expressions of love, memory, and identity. Food was one of the many ways he kept his culture close, and he shared it generously.
He was a person of contradictions-gentle but blunt, quiet but unforgettable. He bore a scent that many found hard to ignore-earthy, unapologetic, and part of the unfiltered truth he carried in every aspect of his life. jimbo did not pretend. He was who he was.
Tragically, jimbo died by suicide. We do not pretend to understand the weight he carried, nor the pain that brought him to that moment. But we do know this: he mattered. His life, in all its complexity, was worthy of love, compassion, and remembrance.
Let us not define him by how he left us, but remember him for how he lived-with honesty, depth, cultural pride, and a stubborn refusal to be anyone but himself. May we carry forward his memory not only with sorrow, but with tenderness and truth.
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PibeCounter: Geg
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hotdoghead: deep fry jimbo in acid
congo_aryan: jimbo if she was an alien
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