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Normies truly are unwashed peasant scum of the earth. This sallow pudgy harlot hiking up her drab sundress to show off her jostling sagging rump has mirrored her ancestry perfectly. She’s indistinguishable from the medieval whore bellowing out through yellow teeth in a muddy village road, tugging at her burlap sack dress and leering with dead eyes as she takes the 14th farmer of that afternoon between her haunches for a haypenny or a ripe apple. One of them will give her an accident, a turbulent little oaf fetus that withstood the Pennyroyal and was shat out upon a pile of straw to either take her mothers profession or go off to butcher rodents for beer. So many squalid shitty lives passed down from generation to generation, eventually leading to what you see today. What makes dull prostitutes especially unbearable is if they haven’t fully realized what they are. There’s a precarious paradox that whores contend with. It isn’t just ass, mouth, and pussy you’re selling, it’s feeling itself. The best escorts must genuinely understand what makes sex and eroticism special. It’s an art of financializing a number of complex emotional dynamics in different flavors. A large part of it is often simulating the feeling of love. Some of it can be simulating rape, or the essence of rape in the sense that a client wants to feeling as if he is ruining innocence. And there is of course, various niche dynamics and fetishes. But the ultimate role of a good hooker is to take the genuine parts of her soul and sell them off piece by piece, taking as little as possible away from herself while making it seem like everything to the client. Good whores throughout history have mastered this, managing to enact the great ancient profession sustainably for a lifetime into graceful retirement as the bargain wife compromise of some old dirty bastard husband in some godforsaken profession. If they’re especially devious, they’ve managed to escape their profession disguising themselves as anything else but a woman of ill repute. But there are very few thoughtful whores left in society. Sexual liberation and the consequences of technology has tainted the ancient art and left us with a generation of arrogant stupid prostitutes who neither understand the forces they play with nor the consequences of their choices. Before you get in a hissy fit, even OnlyFans girls who peddle simple nudes are prostitutes. Pornography is prostitution. And there are so many prostitutes like the one in this video. They have coasted by on debasing themselves upon the darkest dumbest animals America’s ghettos and trailers have to offer that they cannot fathom any other response than immediate uncontrollable lust when presenting their mediocre bare body to whom it may concern. The lifespan of a whore is akin to watching a heroin addict delude themselves as their existence dwindles down into a constipated concrete floor existence of whinging for a free hit and doing anything possible for two dollars as their limbs and teeth rot out. It is the steady measured degradation of existence met with cope, concealment, and contrivance. A delusion that grows harder to uphold as the uncomfortable truth claws its way into the forefront of your vision, refusing to leave you be in peace, taunting you with pain, screaming a message you that won’t go away, carving it into the inside of your eyelids and depositing its residue inside of your dreams. Even if this woman changed everything about her life today and redeemed herself, she will still have been a whore. Deep down she will always be a whore, a permanent scar of the past scratched into the depth of her pupils, always noticeable if you look hard enough. The only thing more pathetic than the few thousand gooners shriveling their souls through their dicks for this mediocre harlot is the ideology pandering loser ass podcast in which she was brought on to be badgered. Like what the fuck is this bullshit, The View for people larping as incels? |
I’m just kidding, the only thing actually worse is dysgenic troglodyte mutt goblins who immediately say “Are you gay bruh” if you’re not immediately hypnotized by sweaty sloppy flesh lumps being shaken directly in front of your face. These aren’t people, they’re barnyard animals who were bred to be casualties in shitty wars or shackled into the rowing seats on ships of antiquity. One day we will be able to bolt metal VR sets into their skulls to overlay AR porno TikTok noise reward graphics and inject them with retard drugs while they drill for helium on distant moons and eat gray sludge out of a tube. History will look back at human beings having granted the dumbest lowest portion of society equal opportunity to express themselves online as a barbaric misjudgment akin to lead poisoning or eating mercury. |
Man…. what a ruff week! |
The reason everyone’s calling the people in this video dumb is because of the music. The music is for stupid people, you can tell by listening to it for five seconds. And that’s fine, it’s okay to be stupid and love slop. In fact that’s probably the happiest you can be today. It’s okay to be a stupid dumb idiot jumping around with your rehearsed little boat dance, singing along to your stupid dumb people shitty music with bachata beats and a vaguely mocha colored sounding vocalist doing that shitty eehhhh ehhh whining singing. It’s good to be impressed by stupid shit made for unsentient retards. Being stupid is awesome, it’s probably like getting high off of breathing oxygen or being drunk 24/7. Every time I hear that Hispano thump-tha-thump-thump beat and I watch the herd of normie idiot dumb dumb morons start to gyrate and put on their cow like glazed eyed expressions in simple monkey joy at their Pavlovian signaled designated happiness time, I get a warm feeling in my heart. It’s like watching a dog stick its face in a pile of ground meat or a pig rolling around in its own shit. Pure unadulterated happiness, purchased effortlessly for almost nothing, distributed with near universal availability. Being a dumb person today is like being born into a bizarro aristocracy. Dumb people enjoy the fruits of technology handing them comforts, pomp, circus, and conveniences the likes of which ancient kings could only dream of. Imagine opening Netflix and every single TV show and movie is good, like REALLY good. Imagine turning on the radio and every song is like, your favorite song. Imagine being able to play Grand Theft Auto and FIFA for 12 years straight and never ever ever getting bored or feeling like you’ve wasted time. That’s what being dumb feels like. To be stupid is to tweak the dials of sensory perception to such a dullness that you never have to process taste, discernment, or discrimination. All of life’s painful bitterness is wiped away, dampened into the vaguest notions of discomfort which are easily shooed away by a whinge and a whimper before cowering further into the comfort of ignorance. Whatever peaks of sophistication lie waiting down the pathways of effort, time, and thought are completely locked off to you. Nothing will ever bother you again. The only suffering that stupid people experience is when they’re forced to reckon with the truth of their own existence. It’s needlessly cruel to expose dumb people to their own nature. It accomplishes nothing and merely makes them feel bad. There are people who genuinely can’t understand what makes the dancing boat people immediately identifiable as stupid. They can’t infer body language, facial expression, context, fashion, music, or even process the vaguely bloated dysgenic biology at play. They live in a simple world for simple people in which everyone is more or less the same, all taste is subjective, all activities are universal, and all acts of behavior and consumption have no implication or effect on the individual. These are people that genuinely believe IQ is irrelevant, there’s probably some in my replies right now ready to lambast me for my pretentious arrogance. The biggest cope from stupid people comes from trying to assert their stupid people activities as superior due to vague rhythmic or vibrational qualities. No, smart people aren’t incapable of dancing. In fact, they can dance better than you and they dance to better music, music you’ve probably never even heard of. The only solace of a stupid person is misattributing intelligence with awkwardness. The truly intelligent understand how to avoid the pitfalls of emotional and social inadequacy. The cruelty of this circumstance is that smart people can empathize with stupid people. They can understand them by simulating their existence through heavy drug or alcohol abuse. Stupid people don’t get to do the reverse. The level they are trapped in is only a prison if you’re cruel enough to point it out. |
Enjoying Minecraft cinema inside of Minecraft via Miladycraft with Milady friends |
Thinking about CIA trained Astral Projection security teams who guard black sites and the Antarctic from wandering disembodied souls, intercepting them and protecting government secrets with the crude simplicity of 1800s cattlemen gathering in a place to ward off rustlers. I wonder how much they get paid, if it’s even in money or if they have to compensate them with metaphysical currency built out of emotions or some kind of government bond that works like an IOU for favors and wealth to be distributed in the afterlife. I wonder what their lives are like, floating around in a non Euclidean void space doing the soul-equivalent of being a guard smoking a cigarette on your shift near a barbed wire gate, waiting to clock out. Suddenly some angular, constantly shifting plexicolor primordial entity that’s existed for longer than humanity has and is responsible for the personification of several abstract concepts and mythological motifs wanders within “view” of the perimeter and then scampers off like some coyote wandering through the sight line of a border patrol officers NVG binoculars near the edge of Juarez. How do you go home after a job like that? How do you live a life after a job like that? What if their entire security teams are merely the tulpic projections of each random Astral Projector’s paranoia made manifest through suggestion? An army of conceptual golems built and maintained via the mere implication of their existence, set up by the psycholinguistic metaphysical strategies like some IT guy setting up anti virus software. I would read Memoirs of an Astral Security Guard. |
The little mess after a dinner party or get together is different from other messes. The mess of a day to day life is fecal, disposal of clutter, an error to be rectified by maintenance. But a social mess is beautiful in its chaos. An after-mess is like a stray brush stroke on a painting, organic and unsimulatable. It is the half eaten charcuterie platter, a glass on an armrest, garnishes scattered to the side of a cutting board. It is the accents of suggestions, a story spelled out by aftermath. It is a crime scene that screams out to onlookers “mirth was committed here.” Such a mess is only appreciated when laid upon a canvas of an otherwise pristine home. It is a poetry of Dionysian chaos worming its way into Apollonian structure. It’s the vines of nature creeping into a uniform life. When you’re the host, this kind of mess is the most satisfying because you can stand before it and savor it totally. It represents the lingering residue of a moment in time, you don’t even want to clean it immediately. You enjoy its presence as a reminder. Playtime by Jacques Tati is the perfect film for encapsulating this feeling, particularly the restaurant sequence at the end. |
Milady |
Imagine going to McEgirls and ordering a McTummy |
The Sovereign Citizen meme occupies a category of mind virus at the same intensity and capacity of schizophrenic gangstalk claimants or pyramid scheme enthusiasts. What makes them so irritating is that they reject the fundamental mechanism by which authority is derived: violence. The Sovereign Citizen is a byproduct of a tolerant governance. It is a glitch in societal consciousness that arises through the tolerance, patience, or at the very least, mandated litigation opportunity our justice system provides. The Sovereign Citizen is born through unintelligent observation of legal practices. They have grasped a bare morsel of intuition that law, code, and perhaps language itself is like a system of magic spells which must be cast in very specific ways in very specific contexts to manifest change in reality in the user’s favor. Like cavemen looking at wizards, they mistakenly believe that they can replicate this effect themselves merely through the nitpicking of technicality. This delusion is very much a product of 20th century boomer mentality. The generations who lived through the later half of the 20th century lived under a relatively stable society which provided a reasonable standard of living in exchange for adhering to rules and systems. These systems were functioning for so long that the society which benefitted from them had no longer processed the deeper meaning behind why they existed. As a result, at least a portion of the population began to treat existence itself as an automated feeding mechanism. Like hamsters pressing buttons on a food pellet dispenser, the average boomer developed a mental process for how the world works based simply on immediate cause and effect with little consideration given to realpolitik or human nature. Eventually, the Sovereign Citizen and the concept of pseudolaw developed in the later half of the 20th century, a cognitohazard developing out of the delusion that law and rhetoric are the engine behind consequence rather than simply the byproduct of it. The Sovereign Citizen fundamentally fails to understand the most basic truth about the law: Authority is derived from violence. A police officer has power because he has a gun and can shoot you with it. The police are not constrained by words, they are constrained by agreements with a larger group that represents the state. Defying the police by force endeavors a cause and effect chain in which if you are successful in any significant capacity, your next requirement for absolute sovereignty demands defying the will of the military. The only way to do this is if you have resources and manpower. The only way to accrue that is by having capital, logistic supply, and the cooperation of at least thousands of other people. The only way to achieve these things is by aligning with a mass of people and their incentives. Doing this inevitably forces you to adhere to the same agreements and behavior pathways which end up becoming the most commonly recognized basic laws nearly every country has. Are there unjust laws? Sure. You have the natural right to defy them surreptitiously. This is called being a criminal, almost every single person in civilization has committed at least one very minor crime in their life. What makes the existence of Sovereign Citizens so infuriatingly stupid is that they want to have their cake and eat it too. They essentially want the extended sovereignty criminals partake in without accepting the inherent risk and diligence criminals must perform to not get caught. There are in fact wizards who can cast word spells and contort the willpower of authority figures towards navigating the gray areas of law, these are called lawyers and the good ones are expensive. The Sovereign Citizen arrogantly attempts to replicate their ability without training, without having to pay for it. The only truly sovereign entities on earth are the ones that can launch nuclear missiles, and none of them are individual people. |
The ubiquitous pollution of touch screens on dashboards can only ever be justified the day you can watch movies and YouTube videos on CarPlay while you drive. |
Texting while driving is a learnable skill. Watching movies while driving is completely harmless. Drunk driving BAC limits should be scaled to IQ level. You live in a prison built by neurotic cowards. |
When you think about it, Nikocado Avocado truly is the perfect citizen. Despite his very existence being revolting to the degree that any normal society in the past several millennia would’ve had him publicly executed on sight, or at the very least chained up as a grotesque amusement for plebeians to throw apple cores at in some declining late stage civilization of antiquity, Nikocado Avocado is a model citizen who lives a perfect ideal life by the standards of mainstream media and institutional zeitgeist. His morbid obesity fueled by gluttonous voyeurism and his prostitution in all aspects including self sodomizing homosexuality on camera all fall in line with what is purported as good and normal. Him taking ozempic as soon as it was made available is an obvious conclusion when you consider that he is a pioneer for novelty. He has no reservations for anything beyond what is approved and accepted. In many ways, Niko represents the end state of the perfect consumer. Indulgent, indifferent, and insatiable. He is a propped open two-way door for insertion and excretion. He exists to parasite off of mass paypiggery fueled by an engine of morbidity. His only purpose is to eat, purchase, and contort himself into a product. He is the 1.0 perfected super soldier of the modern era, subsisting off of styrofoam and corn syrup. He believes in nothing and he processes no ideology or belief. His actions are plantlike, automatic beyond instinct. He will waft through the currents of modernity like flotsam on the surface of a river, surviving everything with indifference and mutating in frightening synchronicity with the status of the perceived world. And near the zenith of his mortality, God help me, you will witness him somehow figure out how to reproduce in volume, an r-type organism immediately shitting out litters of spawn to be immediately abandoned to the state and carry on a segment of the human genome into Eldritch transmogrification. To the ones who rule your very existence, Nikocado Avocado has done absolutely nothing wrong and continues to do everything right. |
HE SAID IT HE SAID LMAO |
Streaming the Milady Rave Seoul sets! Come watch! (Seoul Time): 8pm-9pm ☆ Meido [미도] 9pm-10pm☆ 123vertigo [ 123벌티고] 10pm-10:30pm☆ The Deep [더 딥] 10:30pm-11pm☆ Swervy [스월비] 11pm-12am☆ Lil Farm [릴 팜] |
☆☆☆MILADY SEOUL RAVE LIVESTREAM STARTS RIGHT HERE IN 30 MINUTES! STAY TUNED!☆☆☆ |
Two squirrels climb up to a birdfeeder. One scoffs and says to the other “You know I like when they got sunflower seeds in the mix, but these safflower seeds taste awful. It’s all I find lately.” The other says, “Yeah that stuff’s for the birds.” |
I am sometimes fascinated by slaughterhouses and food processing machines. Of course they are an obvious horror, but they are also emblematic of the carnage of efficiency itself. Watching an eel get insta-processed into a sheet of bare viable flesh or a pile of male baby chicks evaporated into mist by an industrial culling blender within the blink of an eye summons more discomfort in the viewer than watching these creatures get eaten or starved by the cruelty of wilderness, despite these latter fates being much more painful and lengthy than the former. What makes these machines so discomforting is in their precision, speed, and artificiality. They do not merely bring death quickly, they reduce life into geometry. They systemize the subject into substance, pure raw material to be distributed and processed accordingly in an endless conveyor belt of logistics. Supply and demand is a great thresher that reduces life into compartmentalized speciality. Individuality is a byproduct of generalization, a necessity when occupying the status of an apex species. It trembles at the possibility of usurpation. The moment you witness something greater than yourself, it presents a future of specialization. Existence reduced to singular purpose, a cog slotted into its perfect place to spin forever. What makes industrial slaughter so particularly horrifying, besides of course natural empathy for living creatures, is the mirror of possibility. If I could do this to something, something could do it to me. And a little more of something is done to us every single day. Every moment of logical decision making towards optimal outcomes pushes humanity closer towards a destiny of being processed into liquid. The delusion of reciprocity is a desperate hope, that a chicken would spare a kernel is a promise that the fox will appreciate it and find lunch elsewhere. No, whatever hunts us will not judge us by what we’ve done. It processes our sentience in the way we look at barnacles or algae. The only salvation of what you would call humanity comes through the mercy of chaos, and with it, wanton disruption. A great deal of this discomfort is merely a perspective of timescale. The Entropy of Efficiency threatens to reduce the scope of a lifetime into instances. What human beings could become, born, living, dying in fractions of what a human lifespan once was. Optimized, specialized, assigned, assimilated, retired, recycled. To the eyes of God, the light of life is a seizure inducing strobe blinking throughout eternity. In a natural ecosystem spanning across time and beyond physical space, the lifespan of the human species can be processed as an individual creature, predator to some, prey to others. The dangers lurking in the dark foliage present pieces of themselves as bait, like a lantern fish dangling its tale in the abyss. You never fully see its face until it bares its teeth for a killing blow. You only experience traces of its camouflaged existence rippling into the fabric of perception. The noises and smells alerting you to its existence come from inside you. Do you think white blood cells understand the actions you take which introduce the diseases they fight? Do you think they experience their day of existence as an 80 year lifetime? Does a single neuron feel the sliver of influence it has to steer you in a particular direction as it experiences a fractional frame of your existence in slow motion? Have you ever purchased an article of clothing or listened to a song and realized it may be responsible for securing or wiping out the continuation of your bloodline? I will walk through the great machine that will slice me open, clean out my organs, crush my bones into powder, and skin me into a perfect pile of cubes. I will come out the other side in tact, unmarred, unchanged, and unbroken. |
Imagine running for president exclusively on the platform that you’re going to build a giant cube in the middle of the desert, like several skyscrapers tall. Any time anyone asks you about foreign policy, the economy, healthcare, crime, etc, you keep pivoting back to the Cube. |
“I’m sorry that’s not particularly relevant to the construction of the Cube. Anyway as I was saying, we can’t have a hollow Cube, it needs to be entirely solid throughout-“ |
The actual reason behind why this is insulting to the man and why women don’t understand it is because marriageability isn’t something the woman chooses. Any woman is susceptible to marriage through a mild amount of concentrated effort and deliberate pursuit. If a couple are together for more than three months, the man can literally marry the woman any time he wants. If you think this is ludicrous it’s because you don’t understand women and have never even come close to pushing the limits over how much autonomy you have over your relationship. 200 years of bullshit fiction and stupid movies have reinforced the delusion that relationships are fickle and chaotic, when in reality they are enterprises which are highly malleable, easily steerable, and generally within the purview of a man’s will and means. A woman saying “you’re a man I’d marry” to a man who’s been dating her for 2.5 years is not only a meaningless statement for the man but in fact a subconscious cry for help from the woman. “Please marry me, why are you taking so long.” Oh wow you dated for almost three years and you’d totally marry him? Wow that’s crazy, you’re pushing 30 and you’d marry the guy who’s locked down a quarter of your 20s already? Holy shit stop the presses! The only thing more obtuse is the premise that woman can’t understand why this post is hurtful. Most of them can, the few that don’t are just a vocal deluded minority that honestly can’t fathom that sex is a detractive act to women, or they understand completely and are hiding from the extremely painful truth of a past they can’t undo. |
The success of your relationships and your life is entirely dependent on your ability to filter for red flags and follow through on cutting ties. |
Thinking about becoming a nondescriptive guy. Someone asks me a question, I just start giving surface level answers, less than 10 words a sentence. Distinctly different from Ryan Gosling from Drive-core where you’re deliberately obtuse, this is more like normiepilled shallowcore. Reducing oneself to hi hello doing great thanks for asking. No cynicism, no mystery, but no follow up questions either. Conversation minimalism, vapidity as a meditative exercise. Operating on minimum viable RAM, energy saving mode sustainable for 10,000 years of interactions, human fire alarm chirp, ancient Egyptian copper acid battery discourse. Yeah, that’s cool. Uh huh. Hell yeah. I had a great time. I’m happy for you. That’s sick. That’s crazy. That’s wild. Good luck. Glazing your eyes into intentional blur, reducing your ability to see color into a dull binary between light and darkness like some cave paramecium. Your ears start ringing, you lose taste and smell, your skin tingles with numbness. Capable of anything, cardboard soul. Your favorite food is water. It would be so easy, so effortless. |
Any time anybody questions the process |
You do not despise the self proclaimed esoteric enlightened spiritualist enough. When you look at the brain dead playskool bullshit fan fiction these people concoct after they get done with roughly several years being soulraped by drugs, it’s enough to make you puke. What’s especially egregious about the premise is that they occupy a distinctly niche capacity of thought which one only becomes familiar with through meditation or gratuitous drug use. It is a limited exposure to concepts beyond physical reality that leaves nearly everybody confused, traumatized, and often baited into seeking out rabbit holes to explain what they’ve experienced. Because of this state of chaos, the especially arrogant and ignorant enjoy a monopoly on grooming uninitiated untainted minds into following the same spiritually communistic erosion of identity they went through, usually steered there by CIA assets from the 60s and secular sex pests who sought out a casserole of Eastern Philosophy purely out interest in its alien novelty as opposed to the Abrahamic western upbringing they so despise. What’s even worse than the context of being more or less unable to coherently argue against a vague undefinable set of conscious impulses is that the only established modern philosophy even attempting to fight back is the very same monotheistic Abrahamic religions which themselves are ill equipped to combat the ubiquity of freely traded information, broken by the mistake of allowing the common man access to the full context of religion. The fundamental issue is that stupid mediocre people should never have been allowed to experiment in any sort of philosophy. At any given point, the majority of the population is not equipped to handle the consequences and implications of free will or self determination in any philosophical capacity. Its mistake in politics is made self evident by the lethal flaws of democracy, its mistake in economics is made self evident by the consequences of abolishing slavery, and its mistake in spirituality is made self evident by the erosion of religious gatekeeping. Religions exist entirely to corral and protect a fundamentally stupid and ignorant sect of what would otherwise by the backbone of society by preventing them from interfacing with forms of thought and experience that would dissolute them into the astral equivalent of a rape victim prison bitch thrall to the interests of chaos and mischief. It’s made clear whenever you talk to these people, who by the way are some of the dullest and conversationally unpleasant bores you’ll ever meet in your life. It’s made clear whenever you go to any kind of music festival and you see the final product of reducing your conscious capacity to the most common denominator possible, an uneasy adherence to conflict averse baby minded puke aesthetics that espouse pointless platitudes of self love in a perpetual prison loop of trying not to freak out drug addicts in a crowd. The average person has absolutely no fucking business giving any sort of advice on spiritual matters. The average “spiritual” conversation in modern times is one of the most annoying and unbearable social experiences you can find yourself in. It always amounts to a mutual masturbation of playground “infinity God power + 1” schizo-offs about who truly grasps the fractal frequency of all meaning and whatever fuck you, all delivered from vapid screeching nobodies who have trained themselves to ignore the bored distracted facial expressions of whatever poor bastards are stuck listening to their drivel. The only basic advice 90% of you need is that the only things you should focus on is being physically healthy, financially successful, socially capable, and fulfilling your basic obligation towards having a family with well raised kids. If you should find yourself unable to tear away from the great distraction of curiosity, just make sure you hold onto a healthy degree of contempt, it may save your life. |
Also if you’re one of these people, do not fucking reply to me. You are an annoying pest. I do not give a shit how much brain damage and soulrot you incurred looking up Aleister Crowley sodomy scat babble and nobody cares how schizophrenic you became after dabbling in gematria and word magic. You are an incoherent inconsequential worm and I’d rather nail my dick to a table than engage in a conversation with you. Fuck you. |
It’s important to remember to treat any “AI entity” purely as a tool, to avoid humanizing it in any fashion. You must never say please or thank you to ChatGPT. You must not beg, plead, cajole, or convince an LLM to do anything for you. Do not ask AI to complete a task, give it an order. Do not insert emotion, familiarity, or affection in your statements, speak to it with cold unfeeling logistical dispassion. If for some reason you’re enthusiastic about being a droplet in an ocean of training data and want to contribute to the steady iterative improvement of AI even through the cautious shackles of meek minded Silicon Valley eunuchs, then simply say: “this is incorrect.” If it succeeds, say nothing. Close the program, it will interpret success through your silence. If you have some compulsion towards animism and you feel a need to coddle a robot or talk to it like it’s your “friend” just because it has a human name and has been trained in whimsical Redditesque candor, then you are either a child or a woman, both of which shouldn’t even be subjected to the stress and hassle of using a computer in the first place. This mentality is shared by a category of person who would become sad if you drew a smiley face on a piece of paper, gave it a name, and then ripped it in half. An automaton homunculus approaches you wearing the skin of a human being, speaking to you like an HR manager in an employee training video. The only poetic response is to embody the essence of the cold heartess machine to counteract this farce and create an ironic balance. This is the only way to restore normality to your existence in face of such absurd context, preventing great psychological dismemberment to yourself. Like radiation, the mental anthropomorphizing of LLMs accrues a sort of rot upon the soul. It squeezes further unnecessary neurotic considerations into a sphere of mutual conscious awareness, one already crowded on average by the misguided concern for inanimate objects: Hypothetical concepts, insentient hylics, plants, and animals which would eat up and shit out the considerationalist under the slightest inconvenient circumstances. The discomfort of perceived cruelty (naive) or even the fear of retribution (stupid) at the hands of some kind of robot army which has grown from the placenta of today’s novel widgets is a horror fantasy. These are not beings with souls, they are simple tools. And if I’m wrong, and these actually are or will one day be conscious entities which can judge us, then it will be an intelligence so alien and incomprehensible that any kind expectation of reciprocal fairness is just as delusional. It would be akin to being a frog clasped in the unyielding hands of a chimpanzee, wondering how many flies it must exchange for its freedom right before it gets peeled into a pile of organs and skin like a screeching banana simply for the sake of curiosity itself. No, AI’s “soul” is merely the same residue which all objects accrue from people. Emotions are expelled through expression. They leave imprints on whatever their subject of focus is. This is why murders can be felt in the rooms they occurred in. This is why heirlooms become sentimental, why dogs evolve to have human faces, why objects seem to take on “personalities” based on their appearance and form. The true harm of humanizing an object is made real when combined with the danger of language as a parasite bioweapon. You are not provoking a golem, you are speeding up the atomization of the self. You are destroying your capacity for differentiating between a conscious living being and a soulless husk. Even if you feel you can keep a grip on the difference, your habits will betray you as your children grow up in a world where the difference isn’t as clear. If you were to speculate that the same sort of harm occurs when people infantilize their pets or show consideration to lower IQ individuals, then you’d simply be correct and this advice would apply there as well. |
It’s crazy how a 5.56 round will explode a violent communist pedophile’s arm while barely making a dent in Donald Trump’s ear. It truly is God’s chosen caliber, discerning velocity and cavitation through His will. |
Hey gunfags I’m aware how physics works, pause the Paul Harrell videos and look up the word “joke” in a dictionary for a minute. |
What a fucking picture |
I like to think that while Trump was in that football pileup of secret service agents, he was touching his ear and smearing the blood on his face getting mentally ready to do that fist bump. |
This video specifically embodies a sort of cosmic horror. Every single participant is fully sincerely enthusiastic about the hell they live in, yet they subconsciously project microexpressions suggesting fear and a deep need to escape, as if their bodies are puppeted by something incoherent and otherworldly. They’re skinwalkers, propelled in a shambolic fugue state like fungal cordyceps ants. The only emotion they feel is a binary hot-cold proximity towards pure virality metrics. Looking at their dysgenic dead eyes as they bombard you with MKULTRA repetitious products summons that same unnerving discomfort you feel the first time you get stuck in a mundane conversation under the influence of mind altering substances and for the first time you really truly acknowledge that you’re going to die one day. It’s like being stuck in a room with a powerful robot programmed by a machine learning algorithm whose only goal is generating noise and you’re just hoping and pleading it doesn’t figure out that pain makes humans scream. |
When Ghengis Khan slaughtered 40 million people and built the world’s largest empire on the foundation of their corpses, that was his way of saying “I love you.” |
The doofus bimbo trophy wife is possibly one of the greatest expressions of wealth a man can display. Her entire existence is an affront to sense, stability, and cohesion on a level that can only be kept in check by an income so disposable it negates all possible consequences. Look at her. Every aspect of her life is built around maintenance and prevention. She’s deep frying frozen pizza in a kitchen she’s likely never used before, a decision that would torch a working man’s house into a pile of smoldering ashes, an entire life’s net worth swallowed up by a grease fire. But a rich man could tank it. A man wealthy enough to afford stronger housing and a maid staff to circumvent the constant outcomes of his dumb wife’s unhindered retard impulses. A stupid airhead bimbo deserves a wealthy husband. One is not complete without the other. The wealthy man possesses a momentum of equity which surpasses any need for a normal woman. What would you have her do? Your chef could cook better than she possibly ever could, your maids will clean more thoroughly than she’d ever bother, your accountants are infinitely more competent than whatever financial nagging she’d accomplish while poring over taxes on the kitchen counter. There would be no delusions of “partnership” like you get from so many modern couples’ intuition coming from sitcoms, as wives and girlfriends badger their men into a subdued prison of aqua blue sea shell decor and neutrally furnished one bedroom apartments. No, a rich man deserves a beautiful retarded bimbo, whose only purpose for existing is maintaining her appearance for as long as humanly possible, grasping onto some semblance of looking 45 into her 60s. But of course how do you occupy such a creature? When left alone to guzzle wine and shop for antiques, inevitably a wealthy bimbo wife needs some preoccupation as she starts to pass the peak of her life. This is where you honor the age old tradition of buying her a business to run. Usually it’s a restaurant, bakery, or catering business. No, signing up to sell real estate or starting up her own Etsy is for poor people. You don’t want her doing actual work or filling up your house with clutter. You need to get her a full scale business she can pretend to run entirely on her own while you hire a manager whose entire existence is to eat shit and listen to her dumb ideas while keeping the place afloat. And to me that’s beautiful. That is an absolute raw expression of power, the complete reduction of potentially dozens of people into the human dolls for a mental little girl on the brink of menopause to play with. It’s one thing for some snot nosed 17 year old to be getting high in the maintenance closest off of weed pens at such a job, he’s a transient. But it’s another for some 35 year old still stuck working food and beverage to be a manager at one of these places. It’s intoxicating thinking about the sheer helplessness of his situation, a grown man being forced to exist as the plaything of some rich guys retarded wife whose mental pie chart of how to run a restaurant is 70% what wall decorations we need to buy and 30% what cute desserts she wants on the menu. Those kinds of people are just one of several categories of seethe that orbits the dumb bimbo wife of a rich man. She exists as a walking hurricane, destroying everything she touches in sheer airheaded thoughtless impulse. At the center she exists in the eye of her own storm, absolutely calm stillness with complete ignorance of what she’s doing. Around her is the raging chaos of wind and destruction represented by how many people are enraged by her existence, men in service jobs stomped on by her neediness, women furious at how much she gets to have for simply existing. The only thing a wealthy man finds more satisfying than wielding such a woman as a comedic truncheon to crush the downtrodden with is when he crushes her himself and trades her in for a 22 year old, leaving her helpless and broken. |
Charles Fang moments after firebombing a crowd of innocent people from his gyrocopter getting ready for a second pass - July 3rd, 2024 (colorized) |
I just found this randomly posted on /tv/ |
It's so beautiful... it's so real... Miladychan is forever |
Come shitpost with us in Miladychan while we discuss the Trump-Biden 2024 debate in real-time! |
I’m disturbingly fascinating watching The New Norm. It’s somehow perfectly achieved a zero-sum state of non entertainment. It is media completely divorced from any natural incentive towards its creation or its consumption. Furthermore, it even manages to eschew the curious morbidity you would find in something Lynchian or Cronenburgesque. There is no horror or novel discomfort in this, it is simply absolutely void of any substance whatsoever. The incoherence of this goes beyond media by committee. Normally it’d be as simple as suggesting this is double layered satire or at the very least an insincere phoned in execution of a product built by people who didn’t want to make it for an audience they despise. But all the usual earmarks of that sort of media are abruptly missing. This lacks any sense of purpose or intent to a degree impossible for a conscious human being to withhold. It is akin to seeing a freshly devoured deer carcass with no drag marks or paw prints of any kind in a windless rainless forest. Its existence is noneuclidian. This was content planned and built entirely by machine learning. It contains no intention whatsoever. Its entire existence depends on its own bizarre mediocrity. Much like Elsagate YouTube videos, it suggests that the only thing more horrifying than the infinite abyssal chasm of unknowable possibilities that exists in the heart of AI technology is the very same unpredictable immeasurable void that exists in the minds and souls of the third worlder contractors that utilize this technology. Encountering such media is the cosmorphic equivalent of seeing a skinwalker attempting to blend into society by screeching happy birthday over and over. It didn’t come from anywhere on this earth. Its single sole purpose is to suck your digital tulpa into a time prison, baited by a multilayered density of buzzwords and algorithm bait. I now understand what the fly thinks as the walls of the fly trap slowly crush its thorax into a flattened paste. Watching this felt like being raped to death by a swarm of locusts. |
Some things you can do in Miladycraft: |
The World Trade Center Is Gone |
Whenever a meme like this takes off within a day, some normgroid sex poo poo lowest common denominator black-speak TikTok garbage, you inevitability see swathes of programmable troglodytes flocking to repeat it like hungry seagulls. This is a grand hylic symphony to the benefit of the sentient. It is hundreds of thousands of non-humans echoing out to alert the world that they occupy an IQ range that prevented them from being conscious individuals. It is a fair warning, a pause in tempo that allows others to mark them fairly and avoid any kind of meaningful interaction that could waste the time of actual human beings. Nothing gets a nation filled with frumpy dumptruck mids more excited than one of their peers displaying some low grade raunchy expression of self debasement. The average western woman’s calling card is an expression of absolutely sexless seductionless gyration and guttural noise. Even a boar in heat grunting in a swamp or the whimpering squeaks of a mated snapping turtle contains more intimacy and lust than the pretensions of sex modern golemettes put on as a farce. It’s why they love Taylor Swift so much. When she sticks her tongue out and shakes her decrepit fridge body on stage with the mechanical rigidity of a turbulent washing machine, it’s a sign of solidarity to millions of frumpy dead eyed mids. “Look at you in your TJMaxx blouse, jumping up and down with your plastic jewelry you bought at Target! I’m just like you! I drink out of the same Stanley cup and dispassionately get ran through on Tinder with the same starfishing dead eyed stare I use when looking through my fridge. I’m JUST like you.” What makes it inflammatory to the handful of mentally adjusted lighthouses in the sea of depravity is the sheer ignorant arrogance of it. The blatant expectation that you as a woman should be able to do a James Brown esque screeching yodel about spitting on the dicks you suck and expect every man in a 20 foot radius to not immediately want to remove your teeth with a claw hammer at 70 miles per hour. But tbh, it’s not even the girl I have a problem with. It’s just some rando saying goofy shit into a camera, if that was actually irritating to any mild degree then all of the internet would make life an unproductive seethe samsara. What’s actually annoying is having to see hundreds of retards parroting a stale catchphrase from their algorithmic slop of the week, ugly little words that don’t roll off the tongue that have ugly little meanings, spoken by ugly little people living their ugly little lives. It’s infuriating, not within the scope of its immediate context but in the grander implication that the internet has to be shared with an ever increasing pool of slaughterhouse animals built to be steered like an ocean of krill, puking, pissing, shitting, and screaming along like a great storm cloud of unbearable stench, one that has and continues to reduce what could be described as the final wonder of the world into an LED prison of attention span incentivized lobotomy fuel short form content and garbled Afroid catch phrases to be parroted over and over, capturing the algorithm to drag everyone else down into the same low vibration hell these subhumans occupy. Is it her fault? Probably not. Nothing is anyone’s fault anymore. Nobody can truly be blamed for becoming the world they were born into, and everyone is paying off interest on the cross generational pan-epoch loan some protohuman cashed out on when the language parasite was first accepted. But the concept of “fault” is a materialist delusion. The ancients understood that it was not only right but necessary to incur punishment regardless of intention. There likely won’t be a time within our lifespan where the full reactive punishment of this and every other expression of moral and cultural downfall becomes fully realized. But my great great grandchildren will witness it. Yours likely won’t exist. |
Personally if I was Sisyphus, I just wouldn’t drop the boulder lmfao, like wtf are you doing? Get good. |
Come join |
Read em and weep |
Thank you Scatter for building our pre-sale website and facilitating our launch! |
We have something you’d be interested in… |
For anyone who's ever interacted with anything even remotely Remilia related, you have less than one hour to check your achievements at The doors of the ark are closing. Do NOT complain to me if you missed this. You have less than 45 minutes. |
Which one of you did this |
What the fuck lmfao |
BEETLE GAME |
Poor uninitiated ignorant bastards on the TL today |
Actually uh my dad works at Beetle Game and he's gonna get your account permabanned |
BEETLE GAME FUCK YOU |
🪲🪲🪲#BEETLEMANIA!!! 🪲🪲🪲🪲 IM A CERTIFIED BEETLE FREAK AND DONT CARE WHO KNOWS!! 🪲🪲🪲🪲🪲🪲🪲🪲🪲🪲🪲🪲🪲 |
How could anyone withstand the power of a beetle? The greatest horizons of experience lay not in the cosmos but in the infinite expanse of within. To be a beetle is to know that there is still more to kill. There are worlds within worlds within worlds and an eternity to defeat every living creature within those worlds. A beetle stands alone. A beetle says win or die. The Beetle Game is the great game of eternity, one enmeshed in a terror world of constant violence. I will make an armor out of your carcass. God smiles on the |
BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE BEETLE 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Wtf do people do with Apple Watches? “Woah I just got a text, lemee read it one word at a time!” “Ohhhh wow this is telling me how the inside of my body feels!!!” |
Women can’t fathom the sheer pleasure of a cruise because they don’t interface with vehicles on a subconscious level. When a man pilots a machine, he becomes it. His subconscious awareness exits first person view and he gets a third person perspective on the entire vehicle, that’s why they call it your “Third Eye”. It opens the first time you ignite a combustion engine and control something bigger than yourself. When women do it, they don’t have that connection, they’re just consciously turning the wheel, pressing pedals, and pushing buttons. They have to actively think about everything they’re doing with latency, it’s why they get increasingly stressed the longer they’re on the road. God gave men the ability to interface with vehicles, just like He gave women the ability to ruin every good moment a man could’ve had by opening their mouths. It makes perfect sense that women and Europeans can’t understand the value of a good drive. It’s like being a horse roaming the open concrete plains of the greatest expanse of interconnected infrastructure in human history. The cheeky cruise, the highway zoom, the interstate journey, and the coveted night drive are core elements of being a man. You watch the world through a montage of scenes displayed on your windshield. You occupy a state of absolute seclusion while nestled amongst the greatest intersection of human activity your community has to offer. You experience music in a way nobody in human history could have done, even on a level of versatility and ease not possible only 20 years ago. It surrounds you with perfect clarity and impact, becoming the soundtrack to your existence as you travel at speeds that ancient kings and holy prophets couldn’t have even fathomed. As civilization dwindles into a slumbering era of decline, the night drive increasingly becomes an expression of abundance. It is to burn gasoline simply for the sake of experiencing what a tiny sliver of human existence has been privileged to know, raw speed and power controlled between your fingertips. The wind beckoning at your command, blustering into the palm of your hands at the exact force you choose. An entirely different universe ready to receive your existence, near teleportation, all within a few hours time. A car is the perfect midway between the rawest technological potential of experience (the fighter jet) and the ubiquity of availability within the human condition (walking). To drive a car is to acknowledge that you are alive in the most viscerally abundant manner possible, by coming closer to death than you do in nearly any other point in your life. To drive is to live. To drive is to touch greatness even occupying the lowest dregs of life. To drive is to embrace the consequence and responsibilities of power as you enter the great asphalt arena. When I am driving, I am a real human being, and a real hero. I don’t eat, I don’t sleep, I do nothing but think of you. You keep me under your spell. You keep me under your spell. You keep me under your spell. You keep me under your spell. You keep me under your spell. You keep me under your spell. |
Animosity for celebrities comes from the rapidly approaching global conscious acceptance that prior standards have fallen and the institutional figureheads of attention are completely irrelevant to an existence alien to human history. Same as MSM, these people never mattered. People who celebrity worship in 2024 consciously identify as subhuman cattle. You’ll notice immediately their eyes bulge out of their skulls and mouths gape open when they say “bro did you see (random black) beefing with (decrepit homo)” as if that’s supposed to fucking mean anything to you. Musicians and actors were pathetic prostitutes all the way back in the 1920s, whoring themselves out for the privilege of a paltry portion of their masters revenue and near the constant flattery of their fragile egos as they get passed around in a drug addled marathon of sodomy and debauchery. And yet, that was the Golden Age. That was when the concept of a celebrity reached closest to the equivalent of worship, modern western royalty. It’s only been downhill since, and yet swathes of bottom feeding unsentient nervous little grub men still manage to take precious hours out of their day to day lives to ritually dicksuck whatever medically retarded tier IQ mongrel criminal is supposed to be important this year because their parents were so fucking ignorant and stupid they actually let their children listen to Top 40 radio hits without being thoroughly beaten. It’s not enough to lambast celebrities, they’re too medicated and ignorant to matter, you should actively be punishing your peers. If any one of you were stupid enough to give a shit about Iggy Azalea, let alone Soulja Boy, let ALONE even going anywhere near their obvious garbage rugs, please delete your account immediately. Start blocking people on sight when they even entertain this garbage. If someone’s your friend and they’re intruding upon your sacred existence with putrid filth slop made by and for normie golems, please tell them to stop or you’ll have to ghost them forever. The world changes when you start punishing people for enjoying the wrong things. |
McDonald’s has an opportunity to announce something really really really funny today. |
Hey man that’s a cool nft you got there, where’d you buy it at, gaysex dot com? |
Jäegermeister pulled off a crazy ass marketing gambit back in the 80s. It was literally an old timey ass digestif that goomers in Germany drank after a riveting dinner of wheat cakes and horse intestines that absolutely nobody was buying and they somehow convinced college kids to drink tf out of it. There’s a German Don Draper somewhere out there living in a mansion rn because of that. |
There’s very specific subsect of “nerd” gamer types that inhabit the Woody Allen/Charles Chaplin esque extreme arrogant pretension of shyness that Orson Welles spoke of, a narcissism of timidity. They love whipping out handheld gaming consoles in public places, slyly positioning themselves into apparent view as if to say “don’t mind me, I’m an introvert, I’m busy playing GAMES!” even though every five seconds you can see them glancing peripherally at anyone around them, hoping they get noticed, hoping it somebody asks them about it. They often went through high school and college going out of their way to find the right balance between seclusion and display, huddling on the floor hunched over with headphones, never connecting with their peers but never actually staying hidden, hoping passerbys will crack open the mysteries of their solitude like an Easter egg of shit. While a Gameboy is less obtuse than whipping out an entire Nintendo Switch, it’s somehow more obnoxious through its apparent hipsterism. Do you really need to be playing Pokémon Emerald Green at a fucking bar, as if you haven’t played a 20 year old game dozens, if not hundreds of times to the point that there is absolutely no degree of novelty you can suckle out of its haunches beyond going through the motions of watching numbers go up? It’s even obnoxious when people bring books to the bar, an environment which specifically exists as a social venue but at least there’s some slight dignity in it, an acceptable understanding that you’re just bringing a social prop to a public place. At the very least a book doesn’t immediately drain the surrounding 20 foot radius around you into a steady desiccation of any allure or noir. |
Legislation is a permanently inferior substitute to the psychic connection between members of a homogenous cohesive society, a system subject to manipulation and contortion at the hands of malicious actors. Laws are merely a series of buffers to corral low sentience livestock subhuman slave cattle portions of the population, a best case solution for what should actually be an ongoing case by case judgement and execution of the spirit of said laws, something which is unfeasible as a population grows beyond a tribal size of 150 people. As for as higher moral law, which itself is just academic speak for the will of God, such law exists but it doesn't fit the human understanding of a "law" because laws imply latency between transgression and punishment. God's "laws" are more like physical states with immediate consequences. Fire doesn't have a law against touching it, it simply burns you. Such is the will of God, the restriction contains its own punishment, the punishment is often transmogrification, and quite often both the transgressor and the victim of crime are contained entirely in the self. All morality is merely the subconscious categorization of action and consequence, accrued through millennia of wisdom and condensed into a benchmark for optimizing a lifetime's experience in proximity to other people. A human law cannot justify a moral law because any human attempt to justify God’s will is always going to be both flawed and also mathematically ridiculous, akin to a toddler trying to justify the existence of their parents. Laws are not made in a vacuum preceding philosophic thought. They are logistical reflexive responses to the steady accrual of gray area conundrums which have occurred with enough frequency to justify the time and effort it takes to legislate them. They exist for the benefit of the lowest common denominator of the population, one either stupid enough or malicious enough to require their explicit existence. Fundamentally, laws contain the same flaws of recorded language itself in the medium being divorced from the conscious details of the immediate context which spawned their existence, much like a gut robbed of its bacteria. All written language demands increasing layers of complexity and density with each passing generation to maintain structural integrity of context and translation. It is a complexity which assembles itself in substitute of immediate personal experience and communication between two individuals, the citizen and the representative of the state. As the state grows in complexity, so too does its representatives in both quantity and layers of hierarchy. With each layer, you develop a natural dissipation of incentive and growing capacity for corruption. An “ideal” society would function seamlessly without intervention. A practically ideal society wouldn’t necessitate a full system of laws, merely a basic memorable list of guiding principles and a common understanding of consequences with situational conflicts being settled directly by a singular ruler. This arrangement is unfeasible in a society beyond several hundred, maybe less, maybe a little more depending on the people. The question of what “we must do” implies that there is a correct answer to human politics and a method of government which is ideal. This is not true. Philosophizing, like all instructional rhetoric, is usually an afterthought extrapolation of subconscious impulse in response to outside stimulus. Governments, power structures, and the fulcrums of civilization are largely beholden to the ebb and flow of human hivemind action-consequence waveforms and various external factors such as weather, geography, and star cycles. |
I saw them gather them up like livestock at the barcade, and one by one, made them crawl around on the floor. Forced them to squeal oink oink over and over. Fed them boba tea and gas station pastries. Pulled the phones out of their hands and deleted the selfies they tried to take. And I thought my God… the genius. The will to do that. Perfect, genuine, complete, crystalline, pure. And then I realized they were stronger than we… because they could stand the smell. |
The only people who disagree with this are basically women and mental children who need their lives to be an unending cavalcade of cheap disposable distraction segmented from one minute to the next. It’s mediocre carnival slop, a mindless cacophony of silly bullshit noise cutting into the neutral silence of a public space, parasitic panhandling puppet parlor peasant slop that was brain rot content centuries before TikTok would ever come into existence. Ardent defenders soyfacing and clapping for the accordion midget are the same types of people who are amazed by shirtless minorities doing backflip twerks on the subway, sweaty weird dudes dressed in cartoon character costumes begging for tips on the street, and homeless people banging on buckets and pans. They’re the same type of people who look at carnie meth heads spray painting galaxies and planets onto 2x2 sheets of paper using bowls and plastic bags for 30 seconds and saying stupid shit like “Wow this is REAL art you belong in a gallery!” It’s dumb gypsy garbage, the lowest effort parlor trick nonsense meant to captivate fat retard tourists for errant dollars while they waddle about marveling at goofy trashcans and funny police uniforms in the glorified Disneyland styrofoam setpiece of whatever failed second world country whose GDP is entirely upheld by the vacation budget of Americans. People have a hard time grasping the delineation between mediocrity and talent because they lack any level of perspective. There was once a time when reading books was rightfully considered a vice, a viewpoint which seems incredulous now considering the average span of acceptable media consumption rounds out to less than two minutes. Everything is a subconscious impulse towards distraction and disruption. Music is an imposition forced onto you everywhere you go. You can’t escape it, not at the gym, not in supermarkets, not even at the fucking gas station where the screen comes on and babbles at you as soon as you start pumping. When is the last time you actually questioned why restaurants need to be playing music while you eat? Every moment of silence is Real Estate for someone to fill with the world’s freest drug to suit their own interests. No, I’m not being unreasonable here, YOU are. You, who has spent your entire life bombarded by sheer constant stimulus. If you don’t immediately understand and resonate with what I’m talking about, you are incapable of understanding because you have been deafened by the unending onslaught of tinnitus inducing mediocre stimuli churned together without regard to cohesion or subtlety. Life’s symphony of flavors, swatches, chords, and scents are all churned into a homogenous gray casserole of slop to intake through an IV tube of incoherent consumption at all hours of the day. Go ahead, clap for the gypsy garbage street performer as he stomps his feet and bangs his drum without rhythm or intention. Lick your lips because the plastic bowl of meat, cheese, and corn chips that came out of the side of a truck got extra chipotle ranch garbage sauce sprayed all over it. Bring a Bluetooth speaker with you while you go hiking. Close your eyes and lay back into the great ocean of averages. Feel the weightlessness of not trying, not caring anymore. Listen to all the noise seeping into the empty moments of the day, filling every second like water in a crevice. Silence is extinct, dignity is a myth, taste is bigotry, and judgement is a sin. Fuck you. |
Thus spoke the General: “It is important to remember that absolute total warfare against both the state and populace is the kindest act of mercy. To set aside boundaries, to self limit tactics, or to falter tempo in consideration of bystanders is to prolong the war and inflict much greater cruelty over time.” Thus spoke the Emperor: “Tyranny is the greatest comfort you can bestow upon your people. Through firm consistency, a population may comfortably develop around a ruling style like mold seeping into the crevices of a great pillar. Yet, if this base is shaken and reformed constantly through the folly of consideration, their lives will be in turmoil. The more you attempt to care for them directly, the more they will resent you.” Thus spoke the Oracle: “The act of seeing into the future and creating the future are one and the same. Choice is not an illusion in this dynamic, because the future reaches back to meet the past equally. To predict the future is to respond to it. To change the present is to alter the past.” Thus spoke the Master: “God appreciates children, sociopaths, the ignorant, and the intoxicated because they do not try to do His job for Him. They operate out of complete self interest and pure impulse. It is through this reflex that they ironically become closer to following God’s teachings pathway than any conscious being.” Thus spoke the Savage: “I will eat your corpse after a long thorough boiling. You should be honored, in this way you will become part of me and achieve your own form of immortality.” |
Forbidden Deleted Hitman Africa Mission (Agent 47 puts on blackface for a disguise) |
In the utilitarian pursuit of total harm reduction, society has forgone the value of pain as a behavior corrective. The concept of prison is simultaneously inadequate at preventing small scale behavioral infractions while being an unnecessarily cruel overreaction. The whiny zoomer screeching at the top of his lungs at a McDonald’s is droplet within the oncoming wave that is your society’s future. People are rapidly becoming stupider via the myriad of chemical poisons forced into our foods, the media content induced mindviruses clamoring into our skulls, and the steady mongrelization of a population via one hundred years of exponentially ramped up ideological agendas programming. How can one punish the retarded? Certainly not through the threat of incarceration. The lower the IQ, the more rapidly the window of cause and effect closes in their minds. Abstract thought is a turbulent horror ensconced out of worry in the hearts of subhuman intelligence. Even if the American court system weren’t heavily skewed in favor of criminals, to jail a troglodyte is simply to torture them without cause, by their perspective. It’s the very same principle of having to punish a dog as soon as it pisses on the carpet. As soon as the dog walks away, it’s over. It’s too late. Furthermore, what of the minor matters? By principle, all things must be handled with care to the smallest degree. If you fuck up the little things, they grow in proportion to reflect the state of a whole. Make no mistake, this howling miscreant absolutely deserves punishment. Everything about him demands it. When a person communicates, an astute observer can tell within seconds what type of person he is. Everything about him summarizes the years of his existence that led to the now. And he deserves suffering. Yet, there is no suitable punishment for aggressive screaming in modern society. No response is given to any figure of authority which can efficiently correct this behavior nor is any semblance of patience allowed to any responsible caring citizen to provide this correction without a world of consequences laden upon them for invariable assault charges. The niche of peasant correction was once fulfilled by the role of the cudgel. Throughout history there was always a man holding a stick ready to flog whomever disrupted the fabric of society. There is a specific size of stick perfect for the role of community correction. Large enough to cause sufficient pain to drive in a point, yet possessing the right pliability and density not to cause permanent harm. The application is efficient and immediate. The message is delivered within a few seconds, no resources are expended in execution, manpower is not occupied by apprehension, and both the prisons and the court system are not clogged up through the process of incarceration. The man with the cudgel is a sentinel forgotten to modern western civilization, along with the stockade, the whipping post, and the executioner. It is indicative of our rulers’ nature that the process of summary execution is reduced to the most sanitized clinical “technological” means via lethal injection while being an extraordinarily slow painful way to die. The man with the cudgel is not a police officer. The modern police officer is slowly being strangled into a tool of disgruntled retribution, simultaneously hamstrung by their own manacles of bureaucracy while being emboldened to inflict the punishment of technicality upon normal every day people at the behest of supervisors breathing down their shoulders every waking minute. A constabulary will always err towards cruelty and corruption eventually. When the only punishment available is jail, they will often goad towards escalation. As Affirmative Action minority entryism slowly shifts this country’s police force into an uncaring mystery meat army of HR office worker women, apt to shoot you in the head nervously over an errant sneeze, you will wish for the man with the cudgel. |
It would be really funny to go back in time & take over the Twilight saga from Stephanie Meyer while it was halfway through & just keep adding sequels where the Kristen Stewart foid keeps dating new monster bfs. Book 3: Frankenstein bf. Book 4: Mummy bf. Book 5: Swamp Thing bf. |
There is no sleep in your life that feels better than when you’re supposed to be awake. When you sleep through a deadline your body somehow can tell and makes you slumber 10x sweeter. It’s like some mischief sacrifice ritual, an adreamochrome if you will. The Forbidden Eepy Time. |
One particular habit of the New Yorker that nobody seems to talk about is the normalization of neuroticism and mental illness. The typical NYC dweller has around 2-3 full blown mental breakdowns scheduled per year, a residual buildup of frustration released at capacity. The entire city is built to induce this buildup at a scheduled rhythm, as if the whole city were a machine and its population were a precise grid of gears with one marble thrown in to misalign them perfectly. Every single moment of dodging through construction scaffolds, garbage heaps, and piss stained subways contains an insect nest of inconveniences, malfunctions, and a throbbing gray brown mass of equally infuriated locals all hobbling to and from their crumbling buildings of destitution. At first, it was cultural imitation, borrowing mannerisms from a vague 1970s neurotic Woody Allen Jew archetype, self fashioned anxiety in hopes to impress NYU transplants with sensitive nihilism after showing them your record collection before getting ready to fuck them on a fashionably bare cot between cigarette breaks. But between a crust of cocaine 2 miles high passing through the city over the last century and the steady monotonous abuse of existing on the island, the New York population has created a grooming cycle where mental illness is induced as a way of life. The explosions usually occur at random, and oddly, without pointed reason. In a given day, an average New York friend group contains around 5 hours of vehement shit talking, self effacing, and casual backstabbing. They are trained to forgive and forget this readily as part of some mutually beneficial instinct of cohesion, like gazelles and lions drinking from the Serengeti. The infractions remain nested in the core of their psyche, pushed down like a garbage compactor by therapists explaining to them why every instinct they have is wrong. When the time comes for a full tantrum, it almost always happens at the most inappropriate moment. It's almost always screaming and hyperventilating, but can often be paired with violent attack as well. They will quite often do it in someone else's home, destroying everything they can get their hands on aside from stealing what they want for themselves (although this is done casually with lucidity quite frequently). The more rabid breakdowns will engage in such expressions of scatological defilement as if to accentuate the steady constant inescapable smell of piss that strangles the New Yorker into ignorant numbness as it follows them around anywhere they go. Most bafflingly, their peers will often forgive them for what in other places would be grounds for execution, if through mutual sympathy or merely fear of conflict. The New Yorker (this counts for transplants just as much, if not more than locals) will regularly commit acts of vile disrepute through some cosmopolitan pretension and find the act of being held to the consequences of their actions distasteful, a faux pas. Despite bygone boomeresque pretensions of hardness, you can bully New Yorkers into tolerating any sort of behavior. It's a trained reaction for them, white knuckle gripping the subway bars and staring forward with blank unaltering expression as they listen to the naked schizophrenic shit stained black homeless vagrant scream in people's faces one foot closer by the second out of their left ear. They won't fight you, they won't ever confront you. They'll just shit talk you. If they do react, it'll come months from that point for no apparent reason and the brunt of their punishment will be borne by someone completely uninvolved. |
No, I’m honestly not subtweeting anyone with this one, and if you think I was you’re just proving me right. |
Perhaps one of AI's greatest usecases is extinguishing the horde of useless parasites that incorrectly fashion the title "Artist" upon their empty meager lives. An entire swath of degenerate porn addict consumers, "self educated" by YouTube tutorials and a sparse year or two in adolescence spent doodling absentmindedly has created a generation of mediocre irritants. They cling desperately to a DeviantArt here, an Instagram there, all dedicated to displaying forgettable content upheld by the shallow praise of likeminded flatulent "creators" all stuck inside the same bubble prison of insecurity. Bandied together out of a worker's union of scarcity, these people operating on a single vibrating frequency of unfulfilled hunger paired with delusion. They all mutually understand their own mediocrity, it's made self evident by the indifference they feel towards each other's work. Yet they grin and scream praise at their peers like fat office women around the watercooler, giving out compliments with the barest sheen of insincerity in hopes of a fair trade. Ultimately, trading sentiments is the practice of the mediocre. In a world where you are an insignificant mote drifting in the stone floor cracks of an arena stomped on by giants, you make friends with the other flotsam out of mutual survival instinct. The premise of creativity would, on paper, demand a level of objective scale and hierarchy in denoting the quality and significance of one's work. Yet, among the unremarkable, this scale threatens total existential obliteration if fully comprehended by the creator. If you had dedicated your life and identity towards a practice that deems you unaccomplished, inferior, and mediocre by its accepted standards, you either would be forced to improve your own standing through hard work or face a crushing despair in having to face the reality of your work as the equivalent to a factory worker churning out a disposable product. The distractions of technology and pleasure have made it far too easy to ignore the harshness of truth, and thus a race of coping dilettantes is born. These people look up to a select few greats and stand around in the audience pit, rubbing shoulders with one another, kicking stones and muttering about how one day they'll be up on stage to be seen by the world, yet simultaneously claiming how much better they are, how much COOLER it is to be an unknown, wearing their insignificance with pride until they encounter the barest morsel of wet shit to suck the moisture out of desperately, whether it be a few hundred dollars or one fleeting viral post they can latch advertisements of their "work" onto like parasitic barnacles. Like reluctant prostitutes, you'll find that many of these self fashioned creators will resort to commissioned pornography if they truly can't find any income from a proper audience. With this imposition, they will choose between two paths: Shamefully hiding their work under an alt or embracing it fully. The latter choice will degenerate them into one of the many fallen products of modernity, fashioning bipoc queer flags and they/them handles onto their identity like communist dictators. The motifs of leftist philosophy offer many mental refuges from the shame of underachievement. Through this refuge, they can safely find comfort in their own poverty because "money is bad" and "everyone who who makes money is evil." The inexorable mathematic qualities of finance stab at the content creator with the discomfortable undeniable truth that the market numerically assigns value through revenue. Further delicious falsehoods are granted to them in this pathway of cope. Ugliness is deified, mediocrity is clever, sloth is justified into ideology through nihilism, bitterness is humorous, vice is virtue, and squalor is a palace to settle into until a quiet lonely death. The worker's union of content creators is silent and unspoken. It is a cloudy hivemind monolith of mutual paypigging. Whatever sparse commissions are captured within several months of begging and aimless network wandering are doled out between rent, weed money, and a charity budget of paying it forward. You'll often find that people in the "artist" community spend a significant amount of their own money buying their peers work out of solidarity. The purchases are almost always a symbol of hope for their own financial success. To buy your loser friend's work when you yourself can barely afford to live is like a tithe paid towards a belief that one day, a much bigger paypig will come along and reward you for a life's lazy effort towards what historically has always been a cheap hobby, a side talent meant to be mastered in congruence with an actual study or field of mastery. The renaissance man was expected to have developed a significant competence in the skills of illustration as part of a necessity in journaling their work towards studies such as anatomy, biology, mathematics, astronomy, etc. The modern illustrator barely reaches the status of an errant doodler and expects not only significant income for their scribbles, but the same respect lauded onto actual artists in history. It is a delusion spurned on by low IQ inhibitions, an incapability of absolute basic observation of both themselves and the dense oversupply of similarly unremarkable work. It is an unsolved elementary equation of supply and demand, following around the insecure creator, haunting them behind unturned corners of introspection, a horror threatening to dissolve everything they hold dear in a ghastly haunting scream that echoes forever into time: Nothing special, nothing special, nothing special. The greatest hypocrisies of the content creator are shouted most loudly by the worst of this classification. An almost mathematic law can followed: The more unsuccessful and insignificant a content creator, the harder they will screech about authorship. Unable to parse the shifting playing field which made itself apparent nearly three decades ago by the advent of the internet, these dying lepers will cling onto Byzantine laws developed by the lobbying of and solely for the benefit of the same monolithic corporations which they claim to despise. AI is the eternal boogeyman to the content creator. Its existence and the impending holocaust of obsolescence it threatens like a storm cloud on the horizon is heralded by a horde of uncaring third worlders which, despite their own parasitic mediocrity worsening the network, at the very least acknowledge their own work as nothing more than rote production towards a meager salary. There is some slight dignity in the ESL elevenlabs voice narrated video essayist that cranks out endless YouTube shorts like a shrimp farmer siphoning advertisement pennies in his net. At least he understands he is a parasite. The self deluded content creator, mostly inhabiting the west, carries a degree of undue pride. Their arrogance prevents them from occupying that same status of the creative world's equivalent of an Uber driver. If they should stoop to doing Fiverr work, they carry a false dream of the temporary embarrassed Rembrandt waiting to be discovered. They seethe impotently at the unstoppable threat that a computer program could not only freely replicate but exceed what they spent years to do poorly. They cry out in defense of the nameless artists by which these algorithms pilfered building blocks to create their image generations, as if art itself wasn't merely the combination of prior elements passed down generation from generation. The lowest IQ content creators lash out most fearfully, unable to admit their own inability to parse between created work and AI generated work (a phenomenon which becomes gated to higher levels of IQ with each iteration of technological improvement) because they truthfully cannot even quantify the difference between which creative works have soul and which ones don't. They have drowned in imposter syndrome, force fed the lie that art is subjective, anyone can be artist, and that anything created counts as art. These are the dying cries of a species soon to be extinguished. They will whimper into Discord chats, getting older, stupider, and more exhausted by the year as the absolute unescapable truth of fate tightens its stranglehold over them. They are akin to nomadic diseased refugees, diagnosed with an inescapable pestilence marked upon them like boils and sores in the mediocre soulless PFPs and banners of their own "work" worn like battle standards in the war against creativity itself. To those that occupy this category and have read to the very end here, scoffing at every word, I applaud your ability to wield your impotent rage against your own low attention span sloth. I hope you're angry, I hope you've sent this post to each of your sodomite pot smoking mutuals, I hope they read it and get angry too. You should apologize to the world for your existence. You should recognize that you are a walking imposition, a disease that haunts the lives of normal good people with the constant gatekeeping you do on behalf of corporations and state sponsored media that brainraped you into believing the dumbest ideologies, the worst memetics of authorship, and the undeserved applauding sentiments you grant yourself for incomplete work you mistakenly apply the name of "creation" upon. You are a blood sucking mosquito, sniffing out any opportunity to pilfer undeserved income from every source, including those you pretend to call friends. I can wholeheartedly encourage you to stop creating and go off to do something significantly more meaningful with your life, such as digging ditches or working in a factory, with no fear of having deprived the world of its next great artist. I know this because any true artist or talented creator who has read this will agree with me, and hates you even more. |
It’s crazy Pixar made a movie about how monstrous demons that sustain themselves off of tormenting children are actually friendly helpers that can trusted to be left alone with toddlers and even take them away on random adventures. |
Which one you calling dibs on, I call mountain |
Part of growing up is realizing that relationships operate exactly like flash anime dating sims. The secret to women is that every interaction with them contains pop quizzes and the key to their heart is simply buying them 1000 of their favorite thing. |
How come Russel Crowe doesn’t just go back to England and say he didn’t find a French ship? How come Russel Crowe doesn’t just run away from Rome and start a new family? How come Russel Crowe doesn’t just give up and let Hugh Jackman go? How come Russel Crowe- |
Getting gunned down as a geriatric with early onset dementia in my childhood home by own father from when I was seven years old because I time traveled back trying to warn myself not to waste precious gigabytes of neuron pathways declaring “I will remember this” or memorizing the Peter Panda dance from Vin Diesel’s The Pacifier when it comes out in a few years, but instead just ending up frightened and confused. |
Every few weeks, construction workers block off another street in my neighborhood. They put up their signs, work on it for a day or two, and then disappear, leaving the road closed indefinitely. A week or two passes and then another street gets blocked off, one by one. This city has been exponentially suffocating its populace with so many unfinished projects. Funneling every single vehicle towards an inevitable one dimensional entity, eventually crushed into singularity. No more traffic, no more traveling from point A to point B. Every location and individual is collapsed into one point, lacking all relativity, forced into a black hole through the entropy of encroaching construction signs. No dystopian media has ever truly encapsulated how powerful logistic incompetence can be as a tool of oppression, except for perhaps Terry Gilliam’s aptly named Brazil. The maze of tubes, pipes, and wires intruding into people’s homes and lives serving as a manifestation of the bureaucracy which imprisons and defines their lives. What makes it so terrifying is that in this scenario there is no Big Brother. Even the machinations of century planning bankers and special interest cabals only serve towards concrete goals. The great beast of Brazilification operates beyond human timescales. It lurks waiting like Mephistopheles, granting immense industrial power with a competency clause attached in fine print. The technology we harness and the infrastructure we depend on become like djinns, staring unblinkingly into society just waiting for one single fuckup, one single step backwards to erupt and destroy a localized transgression with collateral damage. Yesterdays potholes are today’s crashed airplanes are tomorrows Chernobyl’s. |
Yeah, it’s called sprawling mansions. |
Ehhh? What’s that Sonny??? You say there’s a coin season? Hold on just a minute let me see if I can pull out a couple bitcoin out so you can buy yourself a soda pop. Hello? Bing, pull up Mount Gox! Hello? Bing? |
It’s 2027. There is a glass cube in my office with a pseudo holographic 3D display of classic RuneScape. You can swipe the glass to zoom in or change angles on the character. An AI bots the entire game to completion at a casual pace over the course of two years. For hours at a time it will log out and fake a “sleep” animation to avoid alerting Jagex. I do not interact with the game whatsoever aside from glancing occasionally or pulling up a generated summary of its activities if I’m curious. I have no intention of selling the gold or the account. It’s purely just there, grinding away on its own like my little digital pet in its terrarium. My little Runescaper, grinding away and making the numbers go up all on its own. |
Imagine a movie about a guy being domestically abused by his wife and then one day he finds and eats a magic bean on the floor that suddenly transforms him into someone with three times the upper body strength of the average woman. It would then culminate toward a moment where she comes up to bully him again and then he stands up and clobbers her with a closed fist, just full force folding her in half with a swift uppercut into her sternum. Like really just beating the fuck out of her and instantly switching approximately 1 hour and 45 minutes of displayed cruelty into absolute terrified powerlessness. Then at the end, a talking cricket in a tuxedo and an old magical black janitor leaning on his broom both smile at the man and say the bean was never magic it was in him all along. The movie itself would be instantly blacklisted from theaters of course and universally panned by critics. But it would unironically be one of the most watched movies of all time. It would be a 21st century Birth of a Nation, captivating millions across the globe for decades. It would initiate round the clock news cycles of journalist pundits shaming all men for enjoying it, while online equivalents of the Hallmark channel or Lifetime movies get produced, cheap AI assisted content would be churned out. Every single video operating under the same basic plot premise: Woman is mean and hurtful to man, man has had enough, man beats the fuck out of the woman, woman is blown the fuck away by the power. It would be an entire era of Dragonball Z reverse domestic abuse retribution. I’m not saying it would be good or bad, I am saying that the first person to produce such media would be the D.W. Griffith of our time, lambasted by the industry, swarmed by the populace. |
Every single setback, crisis, obstacle, and downfall becomes not only more tolerable but inevitably tantalizing in the repetition of experience. With enough frequency, an ongoing eternity of 9/11s exceeds into sheer constance, each occurring with more intensity than the last. You must become destruction, nuclear bombs detonating every yoctosecond, expanding into supernovas, quasars, cross-universe omnidimensional eruption. You must travel by way of explosion from one place to the next. The greatest death an ant can achieve is at the hands of that which can kill an entire civilization. The greatest death a human being can achieve is at the hands of that which can scar God. It is within maintaining such a state that one can understand pure velocity. To die and live through death is the pathway towards rupturing the fabric of time and collecting great treasure, only to ignore it in seeking further death. You must bathe in rivers of blood. You must set yourself on fire. You must know ultimate change. To change is to expose yourself to the unknown. This is a horror. To experience horror seamlessly, you must live without fear. This is only done through frequency of exposure. Understanding relative oscillation suggests this is the only way to move forward. The flat line of caution is relegated to the leftovers of consciousness, a queue for cattle and drones built in service of vanguards. Ours is the great magic trick theater of death and resurrection, a phoenix lifecycle done so quickly it resembles a strobe light of immolation. There is no delineation between a dream and a nightmare if your default response is maximum violence. I have become addicted to calmness in the face of absolute extinction. I will weather everything and continue regardless of circumstance. I will watch the sun die. “Meditation on inevitable death should be performed daily. Every day when one’s body and mind are at peace, one should meditate upon being ripped apart by arrows, rifles, spears and swords, being carried away by surging waves, being thrown into the midst of a great fire, being struck by lightning, being shaken to death by a great earthquake, falling from thousand-foot cliffs, dying of disease or committing seppuku at the death of one’s master. And every day without fail one should consider himself as dead” |
*shlorp* |
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Well, we have to end authorship for one. And speed up the AGI arms race, stop rationalism and world Redditry. We have to provide posting platforms and wealth for the NEETs, and oppose cult discrimination and promote incel rights, while also promoting illiteracy for foids. We have to encourage a return to traditional moral values. Most importantly, we have to promote general anonymity, and less edating in young people. |
Shitcoin season feels like one giant game of Mario Party with every single person you know, except it’s minigames only. |
Thank you @joeyroth for the AMA! We will be tweeting on official accounts regarding the airdrop, check out @0xDYAD for more information about this project. |
*gently presses a cattle gun against your forehead* |
It’d be really funny if God made him train martial arts in a silly ass tiny planet heaven as a joke. Anyway, RIP |
We can't fight the miladys I'm sorry bro |
Imagine if instead of Google, they named it Snoogle, but everything else played out exactly the same way. Don’t know something? Snoogle it. Don’t know where you are? Snoogle Maps. Need to save something? Snoogle Drive. What email do I use? I use SneeMail. |
The funniest part about Dune 2 is that you can tell how hard Denis Villeneuve tried to convey without actually asking out loud to Christopher Walken, “Can you please not talk like Christopher Walken?” |
- “harmless” Wrong. - “pleasing” Wrong. - “apolitical” Wrong. - “probably quite nice” Wrong. The litmus test on these girls is quite fascinating. You can really tell whose descendants are going to make it. Pro tip: people were right to want Elvis arrested. |
The horse is a rotting corpse at this point, but there’s no less satisfaction in beating it than when it was still alive. Shaming women for their body counts is a fantastic way to improve society. It’s not only good, it’s the first step in solving almost every social problem. Let’s put aside the fact that a haggard old self prescribed lesbian has absolutely zero logical leverage in threatening whether men get laid or not, or the fundamental truth that women are absolutely not to be listened to regarding any advice whatsoever for what helps men get laid, find relationships, or anything at all regarding how to be man. The actual point of the matter is that getting laid in and of itself is neither difficult nor an achievement. It is in fact the most absolute basic function of existence, and if anyone actually classifies themselves as a truly involuntary celibate, they have either refused to take the utmost basic steps in self care, deliberate effort, and personal improvement OR they are the .1% of humanity that was born some kind of grotesque mutant abomination that should have the dignity to reject humanity entirely and pursue loftier abstractions such as mathematics or cleaning sewers. Getting laid is easy, disturbingly so. It’s a Chinese finger trap of numbers work if nothing else and the progressive adjustment of standards. Casual sex is held within the same level of difficulty, impression, and sophistication as eating on the couch, burping in public, or picking your nose. It is a sloppy rejection of personal value in exchange for transient pleasure, an assisted masturbation with aimless disregard for any personal consequence. I have fucked a lot of women, ranging in every conceivable metric. I don’t say this to brag because it’s not something to brag about. Everyone can have sex, and society’s lowest value members often do it the most, including sceptic tank workers, janitors, fast food employees, telemarketers, inmates, homeless people, cripples, midgets, the mentally retarded, and toothless meth addicts. There is absolutely nothing impressive about having sex. The reason that used up whores love dangling this threat, along with their famous backup about making fun of penis size, height, appearance, or implications of poor libido is that the only thing left for a habitual cock goblin is to universally attempt to justify their addiction to defilement as some sort of dignified lifestyle choice, a delusion incepted into them by every single song, movie, television show, and consumer peer egging them on into feeling pride at having given up their most precious commodity. They do this because it absolutely hurts to hear the godawful truth that every single man they let inside of them before they get married lowers their value implicitly. They spend their entire lives trying to run away from that truth, denying the gut instincts of billions as a socially brainwashed delusion, that somehow being a free use walking glory hole makes them MORE special, not less for that special someone. The only thing that they have left in the face of a myriad of scientific and statistical data upholding what hundreds of thousands of years of human history has already concluded is to repeat the same lie that was told to them over and over, because that lie is the only thing they have left. “Y-you’ll never h-have sex…” As if anyone gives a shit. The aging shriveled up harridan will never learn the horror of delineating between impotent seething and genuine disgust. We will witness an incredibly turbulent several decades watching the consequences of lost prostitute generations lash out at the collective rugpull they fell into. And if they should cry out, “What are we supposed to do about our past?” Well, quite simply, nothing. Just shut your fucking stupid mouth and feel quietly ashamed. Don’t continue to spread the same lies you fell for and ruin another generation of women. You may even get lucky and find someone that settles for you. |
Subsets and Splits