- Joined
- Sep 9, 2024
It started small—stealing a coworker’s lunch from the fridge, keying a random car in the parking lot, leaving flaming bags of dog shit on doorsteps. The rush was electric, the thrill of chaos humming under my skin like a live wire. But then came the internet, where the stakes were lower and the damage spread faster. I’d post outrageous lies in forums, bait fragile egos into meltdowns, and revel in the chaos. Each notification was a hit of dopamine, each angry reply a trophy. I told myself it was harmless fun, just fucking with people who took life too seriously. But the hunger grew. The pranks weren’t enough. I needed bigger reactions, deeper wounds.
Then came the really fucked-up shit. I’d hop into voice chats and whisper grotesque threats, describing in vivid detail how I’d rape and murder the person on the other end. I’d post fake confessions about being a pedophile, laughing as outrage mobs formed to hunt a monster that didn’t exist. The more horrified the reaction, the harder I’d lean into it. It wasn’t about beliefs—I didn’t actually want to hurt kids—it was about the power of watching people unravel. For a few glorious seconds, I was the puppet master, and the world was my panicking audience. But the high never lasted. The guilt slithered in afterward, cold and suffocating. I’d stare at my reflection and wonder when the fuck I became this person.
That’s the thing they don’t tell you about Internet Troll Disorder—it’s not a superpower, it’s a curse. The rush is temporary, but the damage is permanent. I’ve burned every bridge I’ve ever had. My family won’t speak to me. My face is plastered across hate forums. I’ve been doxxed, swatted, and threatened more times than I can count. And yet, even now, the itch remains. The urge to say something vile, to ruin someone, lingers like a parasite in my brain. I don’t even enjoy it anymore. It’s just a compulsion, a sickness I can’t shake. The worst part? I know I’ll do it again. Because the chaos is the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore—and I hate myself for it.
Then came the really fucked-up shit. I’d hop into voice chats and whisper grotesque threats, describing in vivid detail how I’d rape and murder the person on the other end. I’d post fake confessions about being a pedophile, laughing as outrage mobs formed to hunt a monster that didn’t exist. The more horrified the reaction, the harder I’d lean into it. It wasn’t about beliefs—I didn’t actually want to hurt kids—it was about the power of watching people unravel. For a few glorious seconds, I was the puppet master, and the world was my panicking audience. But the high never lasted. The guilt slithered in afterward, cold and suffocating. I’d stare at my reflection and wonder when the fuck I became this person.
That’s the thing they don’t tell you about Internet Troll Disorder—it’s not a superpower, it’s a curse. The rush is temporary, but the damage is permanent. I’ve burned every bridge I’ve ever had. My family won’t speak to me. My face is plastered across hate forums. I’ve been doxxed, swatted, and threatened more times than I can count. And yet, even now, the itch remains. The urge to say something vile, to ruin someone, lingers like a parasite in my brain. I don’t even enjoy it anymore. It’s just a compulsion, a sickness I can’t shake. The worst part? I know I’ll do it again. Because the chaos is the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore—and I hate myself for it.
