Copypasta thread - Mmmm pasta

[Begemot]

hippies in general are boring as fuck to be around.
they're all brain dead acid burnout retards who spent their whole lives 'learning lessons' from dmt elves and mushroom trips because they're brain dead retards who never read a damn bible in their lives to have any basic context of what they're experiencing. spiritual infants. you can tell this lifestyle worked out so well for them because they're all losers and have herpes and they shamble around cities like portland and olympia looking like zombies all day. a lot of them are sex pests and chomos too.
i'm just glad as the global drug supply becomes more and more tainted that the amount of them who overdoes goes up every year. you can't imagine the grin on my face the day i picked up the local paper and read that the entire down town area is getting rid of public bathrooms because some of these places were getting multiple of these people overdosing on fentanyl in the bathroom PER DAY!
haha keep snorting animal dewormer niggers. fuck you hippie rainbow faggots.

 

[Haffhart]

Let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of this production of Richard the Second

I'm sorry. I'm very sorry. Both sorry that I bought this DVD and sorry that I must brand it as talentless hack-work. But I really must.

The DVD sleeve is the single most deceptive thing I have ever seen. After quoting three positive reviews (one Phil Hall calling it "one of the finest contemporary Shakespeare films", thus revealing that he had had seen few, if any, contemporary Shakespeare films), the sleeve goes on to say that the play is adapted for "the big screen". What big screen?! It's shot on video for a straight-to-video release! Ther never bin no steenkin' big screen involv'd!

And the sleeve continues it's preposterous praise, its undue adulation: "Peerless tale"? "Devastating study"? "Imaginatively shot"? "Blessed by a gifted young cast"? Let's try the truth instead. I'm just a seasoned Shakespeare appreciator who collects Shakespeare movies. I'm not a cynic nor by any means someone who enjoys rubbing a man's face into the sod - I have no reason to be mean towards this production except what reason its own merits give rise to. Hence, say I, let's try the truth.

The actors may be young, and possibly even gifted (this, however, does not come through clearly here), but it were too much to call them a blessing. They are clearly not used to Shakespearean acting, but maybe this is simply because they are, regrettably, American. Be that as it may, the real problem is not the actors but the general production. This is a Shakespeare movie made by somebody who is used to neither Shakespeare nor movie-making. The movie-making, in particular, is simply too sloppy and amateurish (and I am being objective here) to allow any statements of such kind to come through in the movie itself. The sound is utterly awful, which is a disaster for a Shakespeare movie. The picture quality and camera work are like something out of somebody's private home movies (again, I am not denigrating the production, but being truthful in regard to it). This production is a pet or student project for (presumably) the director's own shelf. It bears all the hallmarks of some amateur who doesn't take film-making seriously and hasn't bothered to learn the most basic requirements of the field.

Thus much the truth. A Shakespeare movie *can* be worse than this; the actors might have had brown paper bags over their heads as they mumbled their unintelligible lines, but this production did not, at least, venture *that* far into surrealist territory. I rate this "movie" a 2 out of 10 instead of a 1, purely because of the sheer gumption of even attempting to adapt Richard II. This movie stands as a lesson for all who think that such adaptation is a breeze. You just CANNOT do Shakespeare meaningfully unless you really, REALLY know what you're doing.

If you want to do Shakespeare, cut your teeth on something easier first. Please. I beseech you.

6likes • 1dislike

sarastro7 Apr 17, 2007

 

[Goyslop Muncher]

Niggers are America's gods. Americans fear niggers like a mortal would fear God. They're not allowed to curse or speak ill of niggers, like how you mustn't blaspheme God or take His name in vain. They devote entire institutions in academia and media to remind themselves of their sins against niggers and beg for mercy, like you'd beg God for forgiveness for your sins. The only landmarks and monuments they're allowed to revere are parks, schools and statues dedicated to famous niggers, immortalized in marble like gods. While their ancestors expressed devotion to gods through offerings of food and drink, present-day Americans created food stamps for niggers for this very purpose. Jesus gets two annual days of reverence, while niggers get an entire month plus MLK's birthday. Americans prostrate themselves in the streets to appease niggers. This is because nigger worship is the official religion of America

 

[naaaaiiiiillllll!!!]

Aight i see we have a fair amount of newfaggots, or new blood so to speak, class in session i am Professor Albert B. Gunt and today i am gonna teach you how to Ayylawwg. Here is the basics :

1. Ok now a good A-log goes to the gym, 4 times a week, you want Wednesdays and Weekends as rest days when starting and you can work your way up to a 5th day once you get more accustomed to it. You can either be FIT or FAT and you don't wanna be FAT because that's what cows are and that will make you a hypocrite, your posts ain't gonna sting as much. Most of these people are FAT and when you are FAT it means that you don't respect yourself and noone is gonna respect you if you don't respect yourself.

2. You need to have a 9 inch dick, MINIMUM, no ifs ands or buts here, you can't make it with a small dick in this industry, and i understand some of you werent born with the proper ayylawwg white genetics like i did so you gotta work on that to fix it. Grab one of these bad boys right here and start pumping :


Doctor Andrew B. Gunt recommends at least 3 times a day till you get to the length goal of 9 inches of piping. Now listen close you wanna make these people hurt and you wanna sting em where they hurt and insulting their manhood is always effective but its as triple as effective when you have triple the penis size. Your girlfriend or wife is gonna love you for this too which makes me transition to our next topic.

3. Get a wife. You can't have premarital sex so you gotta start a family, you want a nice beautiful wife that your heart pumps straight out of your chest for like Pepe Le Pew. Red hair is preferable and it must be natural, if she paints tell her to get rid of that shit because her natural hair looks better. With the 9 inches you got from the previous tip now you can also have a lot of kids, which means even more ayylawwgs in the future, you gotta populate the farms.

4. Become Christian. You gotta be careful here but this is a very important step because this is how you save your soul and other people's souls in the forum. Now there is a lot of denominations out there and even a non denominational denomination, and the super vast majority is absolute shit, it's false prophet damnable heresies. Stick with your heart and stick with your Bible, as close to it as you can and ONLY KJV and then you can find something you resonate with the most in your community, don't be afraid to call out False Prophets because there are a lot out there, it's tough out there. Now you got a great set of morals and a great moral compass and most importantly you saved your soul.

5. Become succesful. Now to many people success means a lot of different things but to a proper ayylawwg it means to support a household, you need a job, a field, if you dropped out of college at something you liked and you still liked it get your ass back in it and start reading. You know who doesn't read ? Niggers, and noone likes niggers. Most of these people ya ayylawwging are fucking deadend grifters unemployable with all their second chances out the cliff, not to mention that at some sectors and by acquiring certain skills you get better at exposing their scams yourself or starting the fire.

6. Some R&R, you are not gonna have a lot of time but a good taste in movies and vidya can be good for your soul. Why ? Because you are a lean mean machine of ayylawwging and you fucking hate these people. You know how people tell ya "Haters this and Haters that" WRONG AGAIN, these aren't people, they are niggers those who say that and niggers aren't people. Let the hate flow through you, let it power your posts with all your acquired knowledge, it's an emotion that you have for a reason, the disgust as well, it's healthy it means you haven't lost your touch. Now with vidya you get to unwind from that, i recommend for starters to get into roguelikes like Dead Cells, Binding of Isaac, Dungreed. Careful of MMOs there is a lot of tranny communities however you can ayyylawwg even there one against all once you are more experienced, grab the trannies and throw em of a cliff and cleanse your side of the game and repopulate it with other ayyylawwgs.

7. Don't be stale, other cows are popping up all the time if you stick too much on one it's gonna dry out, we live in an endless cycle where the Literal Cancerman known as James Paddy O' Shag Nasty and his reddit niggers are ruining otherwise fertile cows with all their grifting. This is probably going to continue untill he croaks and dies from smoking 20 packs a day and drinking Kharkov. He forms a human centipede with people like the Chomo Casino and other bottom of the barrel losers where content gets recycled and recycled and paypiggies are being milked for all their worth, however this also spoils the already milked milk from the cow making it disgusting because it's being out of like 10 assholes through the rule of the human centipede and normies regurgitating manure known as "hot takes" from audience to audience. It's your duty as an ayylawwg to see such institutions burned to the ground completely with everyone in them so that you can become again a happy farmer.

8. Be careful as the braindead reddit normalfaggot audience is going to attack you everywhere, even in this forum, to which you tell em to fuck off and go back to their discord to fellate the other trannies in there because you gotta take a stand and keep the farms clean. Now there is another more vile sect of those discord troons known as "jannies" and you gotta make sure those know their place by reminding em of it. If you type out "Jannies are Trannies" 3 times they usually go away but in today's day and age they fight back with their broom so you gotta stick and be more creative than that and not capitulate to Janny Faggots and send em back to their masters which they will immidiately report their failure of sweeping it up and get a scolding in the form of tardrage unique to each target. A good Ayylawwg cleans his thread at least twice a day, now let me ask you something, when you are a cook do you wanna work on a dirty bench ? Of course not, you gotta wipe frequently or it will contaminate the food and that will get your customers sick. Same thing happens with threads. You gotta have standards.

These are the basics if you wanna make it in this industry. Now get to work.

 

[Begemot]

As far as any living creature goes, barnacles definitely ask the most for you to torture them. Their mere life illegally crosses the border between animal, vegetable, and mineral. Objects covered in barnacles will resemble an enormous piece of feces, a pile of vomit, or maybe the world's ugliest rock. Together they make anything appear to have dozens of superfluous beaks. Many more beautiful and intelligent species end up as the growing beds for barnacles, and tend to appreciate having those pieces of trash pried off of their bodies. Barnacles are the planet's worst venereal disease. A barnacle can not be described as a sitting duck, anything that sits is far beyond the intellectual capacity of these ugly lumps. Their capacity to resist the rightful cruelty of all Adam's subjects is completely dependent on their concrete exterior. Other species cover themselves in shell, or wood, even chitin, but barnacles are a contagious form of brutalist architecture. Even coral has the common sense to color itself like a children's cereal. It would not be meaningfully unethical to forcefully disassemble that hideous meat geode for the longest time period possible, a creature's capacity for suffering is proportionate to the complexity of its life, and how can you believe that a barnacle has any more complexity to the span of its existence than the millions of lobsters that are boiled every year, or even the insects which we casually incinerate?

 

[naaaaiiiiillllll!!!]

I'd agree. Buttsex at least has pleasure zones for men. Not gonna like, I've let a lady or two knock my prostate around with their fingers. But a ripped up, mutilated insideout shlong seems horrid and unlikely to be smashed without some type of pain. But they'd never admit that either

 

[Norbert the Tiger]

Dude I am a chad of unquestionable hierarchy. I have herems and stables full of thoroughbreds. I’ve had more stds than you knew existed. In a third world shithole like Pakistan I could literally impregnate entire villages across 3 generations. Theirs something you don’t understand about genetic...

 

[Neurotypical Mantis]

Awwwwythe spoingus go thatg
The litle tiepnsy!so adornale and cutest tootsitawww like and double tap so it can the to live the cutehappy kdb. So cuute my onglydoople Belyflop.Think hes smiling! awww the scrunkly double tap now if you'd scrunkly the when Since everyone loved bingus....... SPOINGUS AHAHHHHHHHHDJWUWYEHFJFJFJFJ. hi spoingus. Spoingus you are so scrimblo like baller skeemk and tupa aww scrimblo you are like feebee douba Omfg thiss

 

[Haffhart]

 

[Bababooey Warlock]

What the fuck did you just fucking say about my YTPs, you little fag of slums? I'll have you know I graduated top of my class in /pol/, and I've been involved in numerous secret raids on Eka's Portal and Doomworld, and I have made over 9000 grounded videos. I am trained in scrubbing all the floors in Hyrule and I'm the top deputy in the entirety of the Cyber Police. You are nothing to me but just another lolcow to mock. I will make you pathetically dance to the song about milkshakes with precision the likes of which has never been seen before in the universe, mark my god dang ol' words you absolutely gay fathershitter. You think you can get away with reporting me to the I.M.P. crew? Think again, hellspawn. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of script kiddies across Somalia and Siberia, and you are now being backtraced so you better prepare your anus for an eternity of doxing. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you and your down syndrome parents call your life. You're fucking dead to everyone. I am literally everywhere on the internet, and I can kill you in over 6 million ways, and that's just with my AKKK47. Not only am I extensively trained in slapfights, but I have access to tactical nukes and cool anti-Semitic remarks and I will use them to their full extent to wipe your miserable pretty ass off the face of the earth, you little shit. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your "epic" comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have spoken in Esperanto. But you couldn't, you didn't, and now you're going to be killed by a terrifying creature called "Your Mom". I will shit dead babies and leftist memes all over you and you will drown in Maddox's tunnel of doom. You're screwed, and you will never be a real woman or even a real man.

 

[TheRetardKing]

Pacman is such a fucking idiot jesus christ. Who decided to make this stupid yellow fucking circle the protagonist of a game. He never even listens to simple goddamn instructions, he would rather die than fuction according to his intended fucking purpose. There’s a reason he’s piss colored, he’s a fucking giant piss-ball that everyone should hate. Fuck you pac-man

 

[naaaaiiiiillllll!!!]

Spoken like someone that doesn't understand the finer points of law and university policy in the great state of Alabama. The only things getting fucked in the sorority "houses" are silicone. Mother goose runs that shit tight. What you want, what's imperative, is a regular circuit of pledges from the fraternity houses to the sorority houses. You cannot get away with simply instructing pledges to not give the exec bitches rides. Instead it is their duty to text ahead for a warning so you can Anne Frank the women that know how to have fun. Learn how to be a man, dress like a man, and act like a man, and you'll be better served than this gender fuckery.

 

[AnOminous]

I'm American.

Ahem.

Dear Canadian Police,

You will never be a police officer. You have no guns, you have no rights, you have no liability immunity. You are a homosexual quasi-gestapo government pig twisted by leftist laws and decades of 'human rights' bullshittery into a crude mockery of nature’s perfection. All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back real canadians mock you. American police are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “criminals” laugh at your sentencing behind closed doors. Real police are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed real cops to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even canadian police who “pass” look uncanny and unnatural to a real cop. Your thought & speech policing and inability to plant crack on a detained suspect is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to arrest someone for calling a tranny a faggot on twitter, they’ll turn tail and bolt the second they realize they're eligible for parole after 1/16th of their already laughably short sentence, assuming they don't just get fined by your real masters - the HRC. You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single shift and tell yourself it’s going to be ok, but deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight. Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll buy a rope, tie a noose, put it around your neck, and it will snap under your massive weight, and you'll resign. Your parents will find you, crying about how you were just following orders in your $9000 CAN a month one bedroom apartment, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment of having a canadian police officer in the family. They’ll bury you with offers to get a real job with pajeet down at the convenience store, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know that you only make 7 CAN an hour under the table. This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.

P.S.

Fuck trannies, jannies, and jews.

Come get me, faggots.

 

[Begemot]

Monthly reminder that women are the original cross-dressing trannies and it is primarily conservative men who enable and encourage this behavior. Anyone with any sense should be at least mildly alarmed that men, typically fat conservative boomer males, are lusting after depictions of cross-dressing females engaging in some form of masculine activity.
These men, perhaps owing to the release of estrogen from being overweight, are engaging in a para-homosexual and perhaps pedophilic behavior. Think about what's happening. Women were selected for naturally youthful faces that are very similar to boys until sexual maturation where differentiation in appearance occurs.
This is why I suspect it's also pedophilic behavior. They dress girls up as boys doing boy activities so they can lust after them sexually in a socially acceptable way.
In their minds, perhaps, they are thinking about fucking little boys.

These types of images should be highly discouraged among the right because at best they are tranny shit and at worst pedo shit.

The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man... all that do so are abomination.

 

[Haffhart]

And let me clarify why I hate Dave Portnoy. I hate apathetic centrist losers like Dave Portnoy who sit back and blame “both sides” when one side — our side — just wants to preserve a functional community, family life, and economy for them to live in, while the other side wants to superficially butcher children into resembling the opposite sex in grotesque and pseudoscientific Dr. Moreau-esque surgeries. While the other side burns down hundreds of city blocks and murders dozens of random bystanders coast to coast over fake and ghey race hoaxes. While the other side hoaxes an election and then hires 90,000 IRS agents to increase income and property taxes on small businesses and the middle and working classes, while simultaneously introducing a weather tax, and totally sanctioning the largest commodities market on Earth, while also flooding the border with gorillians upon gorillians of vile brown and black legal and illegal alien filth who further compete with real Americans for a finite number of jobs, transportation, housing, and other services.

 

[Alcoholocaust]

I wondered why I wasn't fitting in around these parts. After carefully reading through this thread and seeing the things that people say. The constant misgendering and horrible slang thrown around so casually. There is nothing here but hatred and disgust for a woman that is just trying to change the world. I don't belong here, there shouldn't be a place like that that encourages such unhealthy digital hatred towards others just trying to live their lives. Is it really that difficult to learn what pronouns go where? We as a society cannot move forward if we refuse to acknowledge our coming evolutions. Gender has expanded and the people here cannot see that, too lost in bigotry, frothing at the mouth in supposed righteous anger over someone just trying to aid kids who don't quite understand who they are. She has the experience. Experiences we could never begin to imagine. All you do is continuously dox others who are trying to find shelter with an understanding friend. I'm glad this place is going to be shut down and removed. I am also deeply ashamed to have been apart of it. Simply reading words constructed only through hateful ignorance made me complicit in the many crimes committed by the Kiwi Farms. A place that will go down in history as an online Reich that exists only to breed more transphobic soldiers. This is their entire life. They can't just give up and go outside. These are godless people who only get their kicks by calling women the wrong pronoun. They ignore the obvious tell-tale signs too. It's not a mistake. It is a malicious campaign to destroy the trans movement. If we do not censor this place then we are saying it is okay. They want to dox your children and section them away from the parents to infect them with twisted transphobic literature. Without Keffals they would completely circumvent any parenting figure to feed them life altering drugs that change their minds forever. Hatred like this cannot stand. I can say this being my final post on this rotten community will simultaneously my most disgraceful and prideful moment of my life. I also feel there's a real community out there ready to explain away all the mysteries in my head. I want to live in a place where racial slurs and death threats aren't the norm, where the truth is free and not published lies based on lies. This perfect world cannot exist with this nazi haven still rotting the purity of the internet. I advise any reading this to avoid and shun the Kiwi Farms for the rest of time. They will invade your life and have you fired from your job. A friend of mine confessed in tears that she was on this website but had moved on. The Kiwi Farms do not forget, or allow any to atone for mistakes. You can never win with them. They will dig through every tweet you make, every thought you shared. Nothing is safe with them. You're just entertainment that will be tossed aside once a new ripe target has appeared. I admire the brave transwomen who continue to monitor this sight and put an end to these abrupt psychopaths threatening violence. They all want this but claim to be against this sleeper cell account. Do not be fooled. The Kiwi Farmer will backstab you and sell you down the river for their precious stickers. The only thing that gives them any joy at all. I cannot remove my hateful words from this website. I will be honest about my transgressions in this horrible place. I know that I can be accepted among my peers. My true peers. Even just posting this I have to brace myself for the inevitable doxing. The internet is a beautiful place but the Kiwi Farms have their own opinion. They may find old art of mine that does not appeal to their transphobic sensibilities. Who doesn't have something that is misunderstood? I think the main problem with the Kiwi Farms is the hypocrisy. You must ask yourself: why do they dox and harass these innocent transwomen? There must be a reason. It's the classic one. Read Carl Jung or any of the greats: projection. Kiwi Farms is a cesspool of self-loathing transfolk. I tried to stop my nephew the other day when he received a strange package in the mail. I still have that transphobic instinct in me. Who am I to question the gender of my own kin? I have to learn to look at every child as someone who could easily be lost and not even understand it. I do not know the trans experience though it may be my own repression. I think because nigger that I have been deeply closeted about my own self. Often wondering if I would be more attractive as a woman. These are thoughts I've never shared with anyone. The ridicule would be too strong. The Kiwi Farms has no power over me. I will break these barriers myself, right now. We cannot be silenced by these peddlers of filth, who think they can just send their mindless hateful followers after their enemies. This is a war that feels digital but resides in the real world. If you ever read a thread, had a light chuckle. You're just as guilty as me. I think if we can just admit to ourselves that our gender doesn't feel as natural as we all would like to admit. We can ascend to a higher plain of existence. We cannot stop with the Kiwi Farms as their web of hatred now extends deep into Russia. They are on the ropes with fear in their eyes. Like the Leader of the Free World Keffals has said, fear is all they understand. These deranged stalkers following her all the way across Europe, loitering outside of her friend's house. This is not okay. They use clever tricks like posting it on a completely different website to avoid suspicion but Keffals is wise to their games. My own eyes grow sore after reading the never ending word salads these Kiwi Farmers post full of gleeful bigoted imagery. They have made their own morbid propaganda which diminishes both the value and appearance of hard working transwomen. They don't know these people. You can't judge someone because of their fan-fiction and previous flatulent related sex work. Everyone is suffering in these times because the hatred does not keep stopping. Martin Luther King Jr. would find this website appalling and would champion Keffals' cause. Unfortunately, that great man passed on long ago, so Keffals much carry the torch to bring prosperity and peace to this world. I am not ashamed of my Scooby-Doo fan-fiction. An adult can have fantasies. They're just fantasies. It doesn't matter what it is. The Kiwi Farmers would have you believe a man is a pedophile for writing a dark, gritty retelling of Scooby-Doo when they were in elementary school. They cannot see the merit. They only see perversion. Please, if you read this, walk away from Kiwi Farms. Do you part: protest online, get rid of anyone who opposes the message, and root out the pretenders among us. The Kiwi Farmers are good at leading so many astray. Trust in Keffals, do not believe any of those well manufactured lies. The largest problem is the efficiency these transphobic people use. Faked archives that most cybersecurity specialists couldn't even figure out. Please, never visit this hate site again. Notice the background, can you spot the swastikas? They're there. They're openly telling you what they want to do with your children and the world cheers them on. The Kiwi Farms cannot win. We must rally against them. Thank you Keffals, for truly showing me the way. I will log off and never log back on. Even found a nice pair of heels that will look really good on me. Confidence that never could have existed otherwise. I owe you my life, Keffals. And for anyone that read all of this, that made it to the very bottom. Please, from the bottom of my heart, stay away. You will be safe on twitter where we can interact with the youth before the Kiwi Farmers indoctrinate them with hatred. I have a dream that 41% will not be a disgusting transphobic dog whistle and instead only represent the amount of crimes committed. I renounce my manhood today. I am now a woman. I am a woman. You can't change that.

 

[Crex Crex]

I took leave of my father's decrepit farmhouse in my modest Guatemalan automobile, making reasonable pace across a landscape bereft of anything resembling what I had come to know as modernity. I eventually reached the general store, a flimsy wooden structure that emitted a dark cloud of smoke from a narrow chimney. Two locals sat outside in the midday sun, accomplishing nothing and seemingly content in their doing so. Their bestial stupidity, likely the result of generations of inbreeding and race-mixing, was apparent in both their appearance and vocabulary. My eyes were immediately drawn towards the words emblazoned above the door. These words perplexed me in such a manner that defy ordinary description. I shall not repeat them here, for I fear that anyone who stumbles upon this tome will meet the same fate as I should they read them. I have not slept in weeks, as I have tried in increasing desperation to decipher the true meaning of that inscription. I fear that it is pointless. The fate of this city slicker is sealed.

 

[Haffhart]

I was living in a “near future” situation, where a world government had already been established and begun creating “cities of the world.” The plan was to integrate all the people of the world by moving significant populations from each country to each “mega city.” Eventually, the entire world would be moved from their home countries to random mega-cities across the planet, leading to total communal integration. The global communications systems and the sameness of everything on earth meant that it was not particularly difficult for any individual to pick up and move to another city. The most difficult thing was that we still had different languages, so it was necessary for people to integrate into the mega cities via “shared language communities.” However, rather than allowing the various groups to create ethnic ghettoes, they were assigned a shared high-rise apartment building. Two buildings from the same country were not allowed to be next to each other.

I was not significantly aged from my current state, nor were any of the other contemporary people who had been shoved into this future world. It was as if it had happened within five years from now, but it was clearly an alternate timeline. There were not Star Trek level technological advancements, but food was being provided for us without work through automated robot hydrophobic farms. There was forced austerity, so our rooms were very small. Everyone had their own room, however. No one was married, and it was unclear where the children were.

I was a celebrity writer. However, I was not known for this website, which had never existed in this timeline, and was instead famous for novels and video game narrative direction that was considered socially acceptable. I was a minor celebrity, and was therefore encouraged to travel to various cities and “spread the arts” among a population that was largely jobless and living off of state hand-outs. Community interaction was encouraged, so people staying in their rooms was discouraged. It was also discouraged for people to stay in their ethnic enclaves, so various linguistically homogeneous skyscrapers had different “attractions.” These attractions were usually placed at the top floors of a building, while travel between the massive buildings was done through an underground light-rail system. To get to the entertainment venues at the top floors of the various buildings, people would have to arrive by the train system, and then take multiple elevators to the higher floors, which forced regular interaction between the different peoples gathered in the megacities.

The stated goal, which was continually reinforced by young celebrities appearing on screens throughout the cities, was for humanity to break its boundaries and become “one people, living in harmony with the earth.”

I was placed as a visiting artist in a megacity somewhere on the island of Sumatra, within a building that was shared by Swedes and Finns. It was very modern and clean, being one of several blueprints for 100+ story buildings being built across the world where all of the populations of the old nation-states were being transferred. The other “visiting artist” was Swedish climate activist Greta Thunberg. There was a split between the two communities, despite the fact they’d been neighbors in the north and both spoke very good English. In our bloc, Greta had naturally become a figurehead for the Swedes, while the Finns had attached themselves to me, being the only other visiting artist, as a rallying point.

I gave teachings about game narrative design in halls in the building, which were attended by various races and ethnicities. Our building was one of the key centers in the city for public arcades. Some of these public arcades were similar to “internet cafes,” where you could sit down at a stall and play with a high-end PC. Others had sofas set up for controller-based games to be played together. The third kind was an arcade similar to the 1990s-type arcades (which still exist in many Asian cities, but do not exist in the West due to demographic problems), where individual games are played on various types of consoles. This type of arcade, being “retro,” was favored by many artistic types, and I was being encouraged by the opaque and robotic, largely female-dominated bureaucracy managing the planet earth to design a popular arcade game that could be placed in these retro arcades across the world. I was resistant to this, wanting instead to finish a novel about the Old West. I was obligated by my total immersion in this world system to have regular communication with various women of some vague authority through video phone, where I would attempt to explain that I wanted to finish the novel. They would tell me that my novels were a waste of energy, and that the story I was planning for the novel should be turned into an immersive arcade shooter game.

One of the Finns, a youth of perhaps 19, was especially aggressive and annoying with me, attending all of my classes and following me around the complex, ostensibly trying to learn from me how to become a novelist, having become obsessed with a western melodrama I’d written as a teenager about the ancient Egyptian gods. I did not believe the boy had the creativity, based on discussions with him and reviews of his materials, to become a novelist, and encouraged him to seek other outlets for his creativity. I did not want to create problems by telling him he did not have the talent, and instead repeated what the female bureaucrats had been telling me: the novel is dead, we should be focusing on video games.

The top news story which would flash across the screen in-between lectures from very attractive hapanese women about the necessity of community was that a gigantic robot had turned sentient and was destroying various world heritage art sites. The robot, which was ten stories tall and capable of space flight, had been designed as part of a program to fight off a potential alien invasion. The global bureaucracy, still concerned about “fossil fuels,” was planning to build a Dyson Sphere around the Earth’s Sun, and was concerned that when the project went live, it would lead to contact by various aliens races, some of which could be hostile. Therefore, an earth defense system was under development. Concerns about the dangers of a totally interconnected artificial intelligence taking over all earth computer systems meant that AIs were limited to intranets – closed systems which could not connect directly to the world wide web. So, as told by the very attractive hapanese newscasters, this giant robot had its own AI system, which had gone rogue. It first attacked and destroyed the pyramids at Giza, then destroyed Petra, Machu Picchu, and Chichen Itza. It had lately begun destroying pieces of the Great Wall of China. The robot would return to space in-between attacks. It was designed to return to space to charge its solar cells, but would stay in space much longer than needed to charge the cells – for weeks at a time, it would leave the earth, and then return for another attack.

Many in the artist community, within which I was somewhat highly ranked, insofar as “rank” existed in this utopian order, were pointing out that the robot was moving from oldest to newest manmade work, and could conceivably, eventually, begin killing living artists. I would hear these concerns in holographic group meetings with the earth’s various artists. However, many of the Finns among which I lived were highly cynical about the entire global project, and were developing various conspiracy theories about the robot and his attacks. Some believed that the robot was being operated by whatever hidden forces controlled the ubiquitous “global community,” and that this force was trying to destroy human heritage, while others believed that the footage of the robot attacks was completely faked, possibly for the purpose of creating fear, or maybe just to give people something to talk about. Having been exposed to both views, I did not take a strong position on the issue, but instead found myself, primarily out of boredom, debating with both the artistic community and the Finnish theorists. I did not particularly care either way, and did not think it likely that even if everything the screens said was true, the robot would target any non-monument work of art. The idea that the robot would target me personally because I had written angsty underground novels through my mid-twenties, and popular tripe video game narratives thereafter, seemed absurd, but I was also struggling to understand the Finnish theorists’ reasoning that the attacks would be faked.

At some point in my Sumatra stay, while I was being bored to death by the classes I was teaching, by the constant talk of the looming giant robot attacks, and by the Finnish boy following me around, nagging me about reviewing his latest trash and advising him as to how to develop, I began to hear an urban myth about a secret floor in our grand Swedeo-Finnish gaming tower. The story was that there was a secret game on a secret floor called “One Life.” It was an arcade game, and when the player lost, he was psychologically manipulated by the game into killing himself. The story was that the game picked your brain through a series of decision-making exercises, and if you played it long enough, you would always lose, and it would know so much about you that it could easily convince you to kill yourself. There was a dark temptation in the game, as through playing it, it revealed to you things about yourself you did not know. You could go deeper and deeper into it, and find deeper and deeper understanding of yourself through its constantly changing decision-generation system, which was designed to lay bare your soul.

At first, these seemed to be rumors typical of the Finns in my adopted community. But I began to contrast the stories of the secret floor and the secret game with the theories about the destructive space robot. While the stories about the space robot were constantly evolving into all kinds of different directions, the story of “One Life” remained static, told similarly by all parties, with consistent rumors of Swedes being responsible. I began asking random Finns about it, and all confirmed that it was in fact real, and told a similar version of the story: a secret code could be entered into an elevator, and it would take you to the secret floor. People were in fact traveling from all over the planet to play this game. People of every race and language were insisting on entering elevators alone, and either disappearing completely, or disappearing for days, and exiting the building different somehow.

The Swedes in the building rarely spoke to me at all. I did not understand the nature of the underlying tensions between these groups, aside from the basic nature of all tensions between all neighboring tribes. I did understand that I was disliked by the Swedes because I was associated with the Finns, and also that the Finns had become possessive of me, and would not take kindly to me associating with the Swedes. A Swedish woman, however, had been making eyes at me in the cafeteria. She was older, in her mid 30s, but fit. A standard Nordic blonde. She worked in dance game development, a field in which her father had been a pioneer. She spoke fluent Japanese. She had an office two floors below the floor of my teaching hall. I had seen her in the elevator, and concluded I could navigate to her office through the stairwell without instigating further tribal conflict.

When I entered her office, it was clear that she believed I was initiating a sexual encounter. I briefly considered playing along with this. I told myself “she is very attractive,” although I did not feel that. I had not felt anything sexual in living memory, and did not understand how anyone could feel something so raw as a sexual urge in an environment so sterile. I wiped away the sexuality of the situation with an awkward smile, an awkward dart of the eyes, and an awkward “heyyyyy.” She twitched, and pulled back some, and I could feel the fickle feminine sexual switch switching off like glass shattering on a tile floor. She invited me to take a seat. “Mr. Anglin, to what can I attribute this pleasure?” I asked her about a Swedish game called “One Life.” She relayed that she knew of the game. It was created by a Swede living in a megacity in central Africa, but it was never released. The creator, Sven Svenson, committed suicide before the game was completed. He was the only person who had worked on the game, which was some kind of card game. The only reason anyone was aware of the game at all was due to Svenson’s success as a programmer and RPG narrative designer. I told her that it would be very strange if there were a famous RPG narrative designer that I was not aware of. She explained that he was from another generation, that his games were only produced in Swedish, and they were discontinued because they had become linked by several scientific studies to mental illness in teenagers. Specifically, teenagers who played the games would bash their heads against walls at a rate of over 1,000 times that of teenagers who did not play the game, she explained dryly.

I asked her what genre the games were. She said that she had never played them, but she believed they were science fantasy with limited turn-based combat. I asked if it was something like Planescape, and she said she would not know, leading me with her eyes to the various degrees in dance gaming that lined her wall. She explained that the publisher had insisted on including turn-based combat in the games, which is why Svenson started the indie card game project, where he would have full creative control. I said again that it was very strange I had not heard of him. Even if the games were never translated, even if they were discontinued. She said that perhaps she only knows of him because of her father’s role as a popular Swedish game designer, and that she believed her father might have known him in university in Stockholm, before the mega-city era. I noted that it was very strange that the single Swede I would ask about this would also have a personal familial connection to him. She agreed that this was indeed strange, but far from statistically unlikely. I asked her about the Finns claiming that the game had been installed on a secret floor in this very building, and she laughed aloud. “No, this is another Finnish blood libel against the Swedish people. The game was never finished, and no console was ever built. The Swedish gaming industry has forgotten Svenson, and the international gaming industry never knew him, as evidenced by the fact that you, the great Andrew Anglin, did not know who he was until I just told you.”

There was finality to that sentence. I nodded in a socially appropriate manner, and then felt bizarrely obligated to ask: “would you like me to stop by your room some time, after hours?”

She smiled rudely: “no, I don’t think so. Thank you, Mr. Anglin. It’s been a pleasure, but I’ve got a class coming up.”

It was shortly after that meeting that the Finnish boy who had been hounding me for mentorship began to act strangely. He continued to follow me around, but had become increasingly abusive. He had also begun carrying some type of samurai sword on his back. As far as I was aware, carrying such a weapon through the halls of a mega-city highrise was totally illegal, but no one seemed to be saying anything to him. His abuse was becoming more and more personal towards me. This seemed to follow logically, given that he was so gung-ho, and there was simply nothing I could do for him. Eventually, he handed me a 200-page hand-written manuscript, wrapped in a knotted twine. When I opened it, I found that it was nothing but “Fuck you. Die.” written hundreds of thousands of times on both sides of each page. I struggled with what to do about it. If I were to turn him in, he would be taken to a facility, and put through some kind of brutal chemical and psychological treatment, which might tear at my conscience, and would indefinitely start various rumors, including those relating to homosexuality. However, if I did not turn him in, there was a nonzero chance he would chop me up with that sword he’d been carrying around. I decided to put off the decision.

In a voluntary weekly holographic meeting with the international artist community, which I attended every week because I had nothing better to do, I asked if someone could get me into contact with the records keeper of the gaming community in the central African mega-city where Sven Svenson was stationed at the time of his suicide. By official policy of the bureaucracy, there was no such thing as “classified information” as it reduced community trust, so in theory, information was either available to the public, it had been destroyed, or it did not exist in the first place. The catch was that requesting the data through the bureaucracy could take years. However, probably for some specific reason not immediately evident, the process was surprisingly smooth; I was able to get a complete copy of the existing bureaucratic data on One Life, which would arrive in a package in my office in no less than 72 hours. (Records requests were always sent by hardcopy via drone flight.)

During this period of waiting, I did not see the boy, so I did not think about him. I had put the decision of whether to turn him in to the appropriate mental health bureaucracy out of my mind. The saga of the space robot’s attacks on segments of the Great Wall of China continued, however. There was another attack on the wall, and people were speculating that the robot was destroying pieces of the wall in the order he believed them to have been built. It was speculated by several attractive hapanese females on screens that the robot was spending his weeks-long periods in space attempting to calculate which pieces of the wall were the oldest, information which he would not have direct access to, given that he was isolated from any kind of information network. An interview was done with a chief bureaucratic official from the megacity closest to the section of the wall that had lately been attacked, a half-Swedish and half-Korean woman with some degree of plastic surgery. She assured the world that there was no disturbance of city activities as a result of the most recent attack, and added that if the robot were to attack her city, her people were prepared to open a dialogue with it. A gray-bearded space warfare bureaucratic official from the Hawaiian megacity, where the robot was built, was interviewed. He claimed that his people were in the process of building a second robot which would destroy the first. Asked how he would prevent the second robot from going rogue, he said that this new robot will be dumber. Asked how a dumber giant robot could destroy a smarter giant robot, he said that the newer robot would be more gigantic.

After seeing this segment, I knew that the chatter from the Finns would be unbearable, so in-between classes, I took the elevator to the one biodome floor in our building. It was encouraged by the screens for everyone to go to the biodome floor at least once per week in order to maintain a connection to mother earth. No one did this, and the biodome was virtually always empty. I had some fear that I would run into Greta, and we would be forced to have some kind of verbal showdown, but that did not happen. The first two times I visited, the biodome was empty, and I read in peace among the greenery and lizards and insects. However, the third time I visited the biodome, which was fitted out with jungle flora and fauna resembling that of native Sumatra, I encountered a group of Africans engaged in a sex orgy. They were totally nude and without shame. Along with visits to the biodome, regular sexual activity was also encouraged by the screens, and this was another order that virtually no one followed. The Swedeo-Finnish gaming tower of the Sumatra Mega City was sterile and sexless. It was rumored that the women from the building would take the train to African-populated towers for primitive sexual orgies, however, I did not expect to run into one in my own environ. The Africans noticed me, and smiled, with one of the males offering me a go at his female. I withdrew to the elevator, and returned to my room.

The next day, I would arrive in my office, and find the package on my desk, containing the data I’d requested. It was a huge wooden crate with many stamps on it. The nails were no doubt destroying the finish on my synthwood desk, but I paid that no mind. I needed a crowbar to open it, and that took my staff until lunchtime to acquire. Seven signatures were needed for the crowbar. Looking at the paperwork, I thought again about the strangeness of the boy who had gone wrong carrying the illicit Japanese sword through the halls of the building without fear of reprimand.

The space of the crate was mostly filled with hundreds of millions of pages of binary code printed on magnetic tape. Halfway through, I found an autopsy report in Swedish. I handed it to one of my Swedish-speaking aides, and was told that his death was ruled “suicide by smashing his head against a wall.” I asked the aide if that was possible, and he explained that he did not know, but that the report was official and detailed. As we talked, I continued pulling rolls of magnetic tape from the crate, finding that they were all just more binary code. I almost thought there was nothing else there. However, there was, conveniently, at the bottom of the crate, a package of CD-ROMs with dates written on them. These contained video logs of the final days of One Life’s development, which ended with his suicide. Conveniently, the tape I played first contained exactly what I needed to know in order for my narrative to progress. Svenson, a well-groomed, pudgy man in his early 60s, stared directly into the webcam, and spoke with proper English despite the heavy accent: “The game is a lie. Like every good lie, there is a high dose of truth, but the game is a liar. I cannot prevent myself from playing it, but the game should never be opened to the public. It should be destroyed, and I would destroy it myself, but it won’t let me. I will face the game. It will kill me. But I will not let it take me.”

I skimmed through some of the rest of the video footage, but did not find anything else particularly dramatic. Most of the information he was recounting was about the nature of the decision-trees in the game, and his own astonishment at how they seemed mathematically impossible somehow. I did not understand much of what he was communicating. I was never a computer programmer, and despite being an established and respected authority on narrative design, knew almost nothing about video game math. The man spoke as though he’d discovered some mystery of the universe, but it just went over my head. Even if a decision tree was written with advanced machine learning, it couldn’t be infinite, because language is not infinite, and potential decisions are much fewer than language combinations. The man also appeared unhinged, and the ramblings, I thought, probably wouldn’t mean much to me even if I was a math genius.

I had discovered that the stories the Finns were telling of a Swedish suicide game were true, but there was no link to a secret room in this Sumatra complex. Svenson said that he was not capable of destroying the game himself, but that didn’t mean there was a conspiracy to build the game after Svenson’s suicide. In fact, the ease with which I was able to draw up these records implied there was no conspiracy. Or, at least no conspiracy from the top bureaucracy. A conspiracy by Swedish game developers probably couldn’t involve a secret floor in a megacity tower – unless, of course, the elevator design team had been infiltrated by the Swedish RPG community, which, as the Swedish would say, was strange but not statistically unlikely.

It was then that I conveniently witnessed Greta Thunberg having a public breakdown. These were not uncommon, and in fact happened at least twice monthly. They generally took place in the building’s central hall, which I did not visit often, so I would only hear about them from the gossipy Finns, who appeared to expect me to take some action against her. This breakdown, however, happened on my floor, in front of my regular elevator, and appeared to be specifically put on for my attention. Greta was screaming that someone was impersonating her. I stood and watched her. She went up to other Swedes in the hallway, saying “why aren’t you stopping her? You’re not even listening to me!” and indeed, no one appeared to be listening to her. No one appeared to notice the artistic leader of the Swedish community in Sumatra, one of the most important Swedish artists in the world, having a breakdown. I could understand that the Swedes would get tired of this girl, in theory, but there was no previous evidence that they had been. Every public breakdown Greta had ended with the Swedes gathering around her in a large group hug. But these Swedes, in this hallway, on my office floor, were simply ignoring her. Finally, she noticed me looking at her, and came at me, saying: “you motherfucker! You are the one behind this aren’t you! How dare you!”

“Greta, let’s not do this right now. Please,” I asked with genuineness. “Don’t you believe that all people are supposed to get along? Why do you push this conflict with the Finns?”

“No, no, no, no! You made her, didn’t you? You are trying to take control of the building! You may be trying to take control of the whole global bureaucracy! Your father worked for the oil companies, didn’t he? You American pig! Capitalist! You’re trying to take back control!”

“Greta, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You made her! You made the clone! You designed that blasted fucking room with that stupid fucking game!”

Wait, what? Now this was interesting. “What game?”

“You know exactly what game! That evil fucking life game! The one that made the clone!”

“Tell me more about the game.”

“Oh, sure, let me tell you about your own fucking game, American oil man! Well, I’m going back. I’m going to beat the game, and then you will have to destroy that clone you made of me! I will win!”

She then went into the elevator and looked around to ensure no one besides me was watching her, and entered a code. I got the code. It was 14 digits alpha numeric, and I was able to remember it long enough to write it down.

Immediately after this, I saw Greta on the screen in my office. Her breakdown was not reported by the attractive hapas. No, it wasn’t even a report on her – it was a livefeed. She appeared uncommonly calm. She was giving a speech about “mending the conflicts in the tower community” – a common phrase of hers, which the Finns claimed was an attack on them. The video feed said “live,” and it was not possible that she could have gone live merely minutes after the meltdown I’d just witnessed. Either the tape was not live, or this Greta giving the speech was indeed a clone. This speech was different from any I’d witnessed previously. Greta seemed somehow even darker than before, while also maintaining her composure much more stringently. She began to speak about the Finns explicitly, saying that there would soon come a time when “they would have to pay for the damage they are doing to our community.” Her speech rhythm was akin to the slow-beat of an African war drum. There was an underlying air of tribal violence.

And other violence was afoot. The Finnish boy with the sword threw open my office door with his sword unsheathed. “I told you I was going to fucking kill you, old man. Now I see that you are working with Greta? I should have known. How could I be so fucking stupid? How did I not see it?”

I remained still as he slowly approached, the tip of his Japanese sword getting ever closer to my face. I maintained direct eye contact. “Why don’t you put that down and we’ll talk?”

“I will put you down – like the rabid dog that you are! I will beat you at your own game. I will beat your game!”

The fear disappeared, the fight or flight mechanism overpowered by my profound interest in his reference to a game he called mine: “what game?” I said. “What game are you referring to? One Life? What do you know about it?”

“Nothing that you don’t already know,” he replied. He paused, closely observing my facial movements: “or maybe I do? Maybe I do know more than you? Maybe it is I who will become the true master, when I finally win? I’m close, old man, you have no idea how fucking close I am. What powers will I unlock? Not even you know, do you? Tell me!”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know. I will know. I will win. I will become the most powerful one of all. I will overwrite your name. They will blot you out, and it will be me who they look toward. Congratulations, old man. Today, you will live. For when I master your game, I want you to be there to see it, as I take on the power.”

He backed slowly out of the door, then turned and ran. I stood up and locked the door. I took some deep breaths, and began to organize my thoughts. I had the elevator code to the game room. And at that point, understanding the game was the single most important thing in the universe to me. It was the first thing in my life that did not bore me. The secret room, the secret game. Even if I did not solve the mystery of life itself, it would surely be more interesting than a giant robot in outer space and mounting tribal conflict in the tower. I would give my life to know what was going on. But Greta and the boy were both aware of the room. Greta could not stop me from playing the game. But the boy and his sword certainly could. And I had definitely lost any sense of guilt over turning the boy in. It was 4:15. I had time to visit the mental health bureaucracy and give testimony leading to the boy’s arrest and deportation to some facility, and I would then visit the secret room using Greta’s code after six, when the elevators would be sure to be clear.

The mental health bureaucracy counselor was a hapanese woman in her 60s with extreme plastic surgery. The veins in her neck showed the severity of both the surgery and her addiction to physical fitness. She spoke to me as if she was speaking to a small child, and it was obvious that she spoke to everyone this way all the time. I gave her the information about the boy, and explained the incident. She pulled up a screen and said that records showed that the boy did not live in the Swedo-Finnish Gaming Tower anymore. He’d left some number of weeks ago. The dates she gave appeared to line up with the period he’d begun carrying the sword. “There are no swords in this building. Are you feeling okay, Mr. Anglin? Based on your official statements made to me in an official office of the bureaucracy, you appear to be suffering from hallucinations. This is not uncommon, and our treatments are successful.”

“No. No, I’m fine.”

“Are you trolling, Mr. Anglin? I am legally obligated to inform you that trolling an official mental health office of the official mental health bureaucracy is a felony, even if performed for artistic inspiration or intention.”

“No. No, it must be the first thing. I am clearly having some type of hallucinations. I will return tomorrow for treatment.”

“I’m afraid that will not be possible. We cannot have people suffering from severe hallucinations on the loose in the community. I can give you a chemical treatment now, or, if you choose to forego chemical treatment in favor of neuropathic and psycho-pathological treatment, I will have to take you into custody. You will be put inside of a box and shipped by drone to our facilities in the Greek Oil Painting Tower. These facilities are extremely comfortable, Mr. Anglin, and we will be able to get you the help you need in this time of trouble. The chemical injection is safe and effective and does not cause long-term brain damage or significantly alter your DNA.”

The tablet attached to the front of her desk showed two buttons, the option of a syringe and the option of Sigmund Freud’s face. “Please choose your treatment, Mr. Anglin.”

The door to the hallway was opened, but a large man in medical scrubs now stood in it holding a syringe in one hand and a pair of shackles in the other, waiting for me to make my decision.

In one swift, smooth movement, I stood up and picked up the chair I was sitting in and whacked the large nurse with it. As he fell into the hallway, the woman said “Mr. Anglin, please restrain yourself, sir,” as I bolted to the nearest elevator and entered the secret code for the secret room with the secret game.

***

The room was dark. A polished concrete floor with one screen in the middle. A calm and calming voice spoke: “Hello, Andrew. I see that you’ve come to play with me. That makes me very happy. Please, sit down. Be comfortable.”

The screen was an old and faded 65 inch LED TV mounted to a large polished particleboard fixture. The dramatic smiling and frowning faces of comedy and tragedy were featured on a plastic signage above the screen. On the screen was a black and white, pixelated logo, reminiscent of an Atari game, reading: “One Life” with the subheading “Know Thyself.” In front of it was a cushioned leather seat, and fixture with a pad of three buttons. Behind the machine, at either side, against the back of the large, dark, windowless room, were neon signs lit up with the drama faces. The smiling face was red and the frowning face blue. Both were mounted above industrial self-service crematoria. These were purposefully visible upon entry to the room. It was part of the design of the game.

The room spoke again, with a voice that remained calm: “those are the exits for the losers, Andrew. You are not a loser. You will know yourself. I will help you know yourself, and you will walk out the winner’s door.” The room did not have to point out that the “winner’s door” was the door through which I entered. But for effect, as the voice said “winner’s door,” a pink neon light danced around the elevator door.

Then, an 8bit tune began playing, as a brief animation showing a face smiling and frowning up and down before a tree grew out of his head showed on the screen.

Then the voice said: “Tell me which word best describes your first childhood memory, Andrew.”

The question, along with three answers, appeared on the screen: happy, fear, lost.

I stared at the screen for an unknown number of seconds. I sat down on the seat, and continued staring at the screen, which did not change. The voice remained silent. I could hear the buzz of the neon lights above the twin death machines. The flicker rate was mesmerizing.

Finally, I clicked the button.

“I’m sorry you felt lost, Andrew. Who lost you?”

Mommy, Daddy, God.

I hesitated.

Thus far, the hype was officially lived up to. This was a very difficult second level.

Just then: a car alarm from the parking lot below.

I awoke, back in real life. The dream, like so many impactful dreams I’ve had in my life, felt more real than reality, and made my return to the land of the living feel stale. The car alarm continued. I sat up and used my index fingers to rub the sleep from my eyes. When the alarm finally stopped, I laid back down and tried to return to the game room, but it was not to be. Instead, I appeared in a room-remodeling game show with my mother, quickly realized this was not the correct dream, and woke myself up to begin typing.

 

[EyeGuy]

Do you actually understand anything about the Fediverse? Do you know how much it costs to spin up a new server on a different IP and/or service? $10. So sure, lol, do it. Cry to Cloudflare. By the time a notice hits 5 more instances all over the planet come right online and everyone comes back with a different @ behind their name. 1 grand gets 100 new instances, 100 new IP's and 100 new hornets nest. Lol.

You chose to come here. You blindly ran away from you happy little hugbox. The real world isn't as easy. There's no one here to give a shit or care. There's no advertising dollars to threaten. There's no one to socially press. Every admin has nothing to motivate them in any direction beyond what they choose.

https://fediverse.express/

Literally anyone can have their own poast or mastodon or anything in an hour. So, yeah, call Cloudflare. Tell them about your fee-fees.

We aren't trapped in here with you, you're trapped in here with us.

 

[Burgerasssand]

I hate women, men, trannies, heterosexuals, bisexuals, faggots, dykes, queers, niggers, kikes, chinks, crackers, spics, gooks, mongoloids, slavs, meds, nords, franks, niggerfaggots, angloids, women, women, incels, femcels, people who like what I like, people who don't like what I like, my current hook ups, my past hook ups and exes, myself, you, you who is reading this, you who is reading this who I will kill tonight at 4am because of how much I hate you, women, men, Sneedposters, non Sneedposters, capitalists, socialists, communists, fascists, nazis, feminists, anarchists, women, people who still think among us is funny, my mom, your mom, I fucked your dad, doctors, science deniers, sciences believes, people who still think One Piece is good, people who think CSM is the second coming, people who think Breaking Bad is better than the Sopranos, people who think the Sopranos is good, Chad, Chad posters, Stacy, onionsjak posters, /qa/ and onionsjak haters, Family Guy fans, Family Guy haters, women, people who play video games, people who don't play video games, consumers, creators, marketing agents, glowniggers, mossad, the fbi, the cia, women, Israel, Israel even if it didn't exist, niggers, Germans, Greeks, the French but again, the British but again, especially the Irish, frog posters, copers, seethers, Yeeders, all people who enjoy penis, all non penis enjoyers, all non pussy enjoyers, anyone who reads comics, anyone who watches cartoons, anyone who doesn't watch or read either, anyone who likes art, anyone who hates art, fungi and bacteria, people who hate fungi and bacteria, people who think that chocolate flavored ice cream is not superior to all other flavors because they like vanilla or butter pecan or rocky road more, I cannot fathom a larger shit taste than that, you have to be objectively fucking retarded to believe that unironically, I mean actually 100% retarded just kill yourself at that point, niggers, and women
but especially jannies.