- Joined
- Dec 12, 2022
QueryTracker is where their contact info is. Mileage may vary.
The Writing Thread
- Thread starter darkhorse816
- Start date
- Joined
- Aug 17, 2022
So, was curious; how's everyone doing on their writing projects? I know I've bitched enough about me; how's everyone else doing?
- Joined
- Sep 30, 2019
Working on nonfiction projects. I'm getting close to the end of the research/notetaking phase of my "main" project (I have about 2 more books to take notes on, albeit big ones). With research-based projects like this there's always the temptation that you don't have enough information, but I feel like I've gone through the main sources that I wanted to cover.
Since progress on that has been slow, I'm working on a side project; a shorter essay that piggybacks off the reading I've already done. I'm trying a different style of writing this than I usually do. My plan is to make an outline, then fill the outline with bullet points, then turn the bullet points into sentences/paragraphs. I'm about 60% through the bullet pointing.
- Joined
- Jul 4, 2022
It’s kinda slow, haven’t even started the actual writing yet even though I really should somewhere in the near future. I’m currently trying to find a happy balance between worldbuilding and planning out the plot. I know everyone says “Don’t spend too much time on worldbuilding”, but then I look at other stories that have atrocious worlds that really didn’t do the story many favors and get nervous.
- Joined
- Feb 22, 2024
I crashed out and quit a miserable job back in July. I’m not a nigger with my money so I’m taking three months to finish my novel before I start my new gig.
I even sold my consooooomer shit to have some more money for this venture.
So I’ve made actual progress, even had the courage to tell my folks I’ve been writing.
I even sold my consooooomer shit to have some more money for this venture.
So I’ve made actual progress, even had the courage to tell my folks I’ve been writing.
Shaneequa
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Oct 11, 2020
The numbers are bloated because they count free downloads as "orders" but the NY Times counts publishers buying warehouses of their own books as "sales" for the Best Selling list so I'm allowed to smudge the numbers in my favor.
- Joined
- Aug 17, 2022
Bit of a slight update on my writing of that "personal plotline" of mine. For the most part, progress is a little slow, more because of IRL issues like focusing on my job and similar; I'm focusing more on stuff like that than my hobbies. That being said, I have made a bit of progress; general plot is down, and I know where to take it, only major issue is just getting enough time to actually write it out.
I am kinda stuck on a character concept again. Not exactly asking for help, just venting.
I am kinda stuck on a character concept again. Not exactly asking for help, just venting.
- Joined
- Apr 22, 2015
WONS
I have planted a seed and watched it grow.
I have watered the roots and plucked the fruit.
I am the evil God inside.
From the medical waste compost, spiraling among the filth, I puppeteer the rotten fruit to have it spring back to life and push aside the mildew and dirt -those gifts from failed creations- the gnarl of palm against palm in mockery of prayer, the most disgusting tumor made human, truly the most unholy of Earthly abominations.
The rotten meat comes to life once more. The son forgotten, the beautiful boy whose name was forsaken. Whose form moves forward like this prose and its evolution, becoming lyrical and evil, all in praise of the immortal abortion.
O, lovely mother who could not contain such heavy joy, giving birth to the obscene and heavily deformed, a son not meant to be, a test of faith that made them renounce their Christianity.
Behold the gift of the almighty God.
The rejected offspring from a child who first tasted snow, pulls itself away from the medical waste -what was buried in the intended grave was empty, for their body was too horrifying and malformed to grant a dignified display. The parents have moved on and are trying to conceive as the husband pumps into the sobbing wife, whispering sweet nothings that it won’t happen again.
Through the front door window emerges the neglected child, spying for a long while, curious at the miracle of sex but still unable to understand it yet due to their extensive deformity -a split face with eyes facing opposite direction- the voyeur has been granted a panoramic to witness the miracle of creation.
The gnarled hands become unglued from twisted bone and pull at the door handle with such strength that it rips away easily. The studio apartment is all the couple could afford after all the medical bills and therapy. Within a few steps the neglected child sees their parents unfolding from one another, exhausted and still traumatized at what might have been.
The promised son runs up to them, giving the father a kiss with serrated teeth. The mother stares on, still traumatized and exhausted, unable to emote anymore.
“Mother, we can try again.”
The son’s first words which cause the mother to inadvertently smile before the zombie child embraces her, pulling open her lips, marching head first and diving right back inside.
The cervix contorts with a baby foot pushing through, the labia stretched to tearing like the homeless tent slashed by an intruder, a womb being remolded, a belly that bursts open when the broken spine of the deformed child ruptures through like a shark fin cruising through surface waters. The serrated teeth work again, biting into the meat and tasting copper blood as it eats its way towards home. It will be at home once again.
All that remained in that tiny home was a female figure tied up at all ends and displayed like a cradle of flash waiting to catch the light to best illumination upon the fortunate explorer.
I have planted a seed and watched it grow.
I have watered the roots and plucked the fruit.
I am the evil God inside.
From the medical waste compost, spiraling among the filth, I puppeteer the rotten fruit to have it spring back to life and push aside the mildew and dirt -those gifts from failed creations- the gnarl of palm against palm in mockery of prayer, the most disgusting tumor made human, truly the most unholy of Earthly abominations.
The rotten meat comes to life once more. The son forgotten, the beautiful boy whose name was forsaken. Whose form moves forward like this prose and its evolution, becoming lyrical and evil, all in praise of the immortal abortion.
O, lovely mother who could not contain such heavy joy, giving birth to the obscene and heavily deformed, a son not meant to be, a test of faith that made them renounce their Christianity.
Behold the gift of the almighty God.
The rejected offspring from a child who first tasted snow, pulls itself away from the medical waste -what was buried in the intended grave was empty, for their body was too horrifying and malformed to grant a dignified display. The parents have moved on and are trying to conceive as the husband pumps into the sobbing wife, whispering sweet nothings that it won’t happen again.
Through the front door window emerges the neglected child, spying for a long while, curious at the miracle of sex but still unable to understand it yet due to their extensive deformity -a split face with eyes facing opposite direction- the voyeur has been granted a panoramic to witness the miracle of creation.
The gnarled hands become unglued from twisted bone and pull at the door handle with such strength that it rips away easily. The studio apartment is all the couple could afford after all the medical bills and therapy. Within a few steps the neglected child sees their parents unfolding from one another, exhausted and still traumatized at what might have been.
The promised son runs up to them, giving the father a kiss with serrated teeth. The mother stares on, still traumatized and exhausted, unable to emote anymore.
“Mother, we can try again.”
The son’s first words which cause the mother to inadvertently smile before the zombie child embraces her, pulling open her lips, marching head first and diving right back inside.
The cervix contorts with a baby foot pushing through, the labia stretched to tearing like the homeless tent slashed by an intruder, a womb being remolded, a belly that bursts open when the broken spine of the deformed child ruptures through like a shark fin cruising through surface waters. The serrated teeth work again, biting into the meat and tasting copper blood as it eats its way towards home. It will be at home once again.
All that remained in that tiny home was a female figure tied up at all ends and displayed like a cradle of flash waiting to catch the light to best illumination upon the fortunate explorer.
- Joined
- Feb 22, 2024
Got rid of gaming, got my indulgences under control, knocked out three chapters last night.
Cut out the weakness and it’s amazing what you can get done.
Cut out the weakness and it’s amazing what you can get done.
- Joined
- Apr 22, 2015
An example of modern “transgressive” writing:
HOLE
The house is white and covered in feces. Infected taints shit out more shit. Gay dead boyfriends line the hallways with needles still stuck in the veins. Above them is a graffiti inviting more for a good time. Have pity for the pedophile in denial. Have pity for the serial killer fag who has yet to coerce a twink slave to do their bidding and write their blog. Write very short CP to taunt the reader over how great I am and what morons in the art scene appraise my work. Shitty taint and dumb bitch brains unscrewed and smashed by hairy hands and fingertips with wet ink after ejaculating to Samuel Delaney’s Hogg for the umpteenth time. Make you puke and gag. Get appraised by forgotten 80’s micro celebs and art photographers with other associations. Go to your gay club with sheep skin diplomas from Yale and Harvard and jerk off over how great it is to be a writer of gay pedophile serial killer porn. Create “The Story of Little Nancy” and reference actual Child Porn Snuff Films filtering through the surface web in .gif and cursed WebP expressions. Asking how far can I go with it? Be the gay man with a blog featuring shirtless twinks and dedicate whole sections to nipple amputation and call those nipples baby penises for shock humor and applause from your seclusion of gay pedophiles in training –your devoted fans and Patreon subscribers. The hallways are encrusted with roaches and feces while the gay serial killer mucks about drooling over their next high-profile article in the New Yorker and “transgressive” art zines preside over cyphers descended from the ruling class who play act as Sade and Rimbaud. Grow pedophiliac moustaches like the unfortunate Rimbaud in old age. Mock the pain of others and brag about your drunken voyages and females you paid for to play-act as the underage Lolita as undressed by the wannabe Nabokov. All these bad actors of drama in the playpen of gay rapist serial killer fiction passing out pamphlets saying “How to be transgressive.” Who cares about the gay man who can’t have his ideal twink slave? Who cares about the man who cannot be wed and projects their hate onto the underage female they wish to be a man? Who cares about your poetry recalling shitty taints? Is this disturbing enough for you? Shall I assume the perspective of the killer who is pretending to be the author of their imagined crimes? Become the bearded critic writing a review of ‘Daisy’s Destruction’ for the Arts & Culture section for clickbait websites. Such elegant prose one would hope not to imitate. “Fucking shit hole ripped her guts out through a fistula cunt Little Nancy sucked the smegma load from dirty dick holes and asses fucked with razor blades puking into the 80’s carpet atop 1st editions of the George Milles Cycle wiping blood and piss off the cover for Ebay reselling and buying up old porn magazines from those neglected corners scanning them for historical research gay Pee-Wee-Herman muscle mags and be backed up by your connections in gay gloryhole research and industrial music. Grind up all the transgressive writing in a blender and force-feed it into the holes of the starving African sold into sex slavery all for research and dark web vistas, Ask Jeeves where to go for the best sites of human trafficking and take a selfie for an author’s photo in the sleeve of your precious book of gay pedophile serial killer fiction atop the mountain of bodies impaling the other paid by the quarter like William S. Burroughs bragging about two kids fucking for a nickel while Arthur C. Clark’s pedophile star burns brightest and disintegrates from raw sexual expulsion of the darkest desires and worshipped by the Science Fiction Writers Association. Play to activist groups and scream “Nigger faggot!” as you slam the stake in the heart of good nature and good expressions, scream “Free Palestine and death to Israel” as you shake hands with those Hasidic critics and editors, be duplicitous in your self-marketing and stand in two circles of the charlatan, make friends with other wannabes and proclaim the convicted pedophile and give them a pull quote and visit their artistic exhibitions lined side-by-side with John Wayne Gacy paintings and Ted Bundy poetry. Put it all together in a soup of shit and bile and cut up children skewered like shish kabob to flavor the stew. Take the remains and boil the bone, take the skin and bound it to your book of fetishes and call it fiction. Stab into the brains of the curious teenager and hope to warp them, be no different than influencers that show porn to change the sexuality of the naïve and young viewer. Bash into the keyboard and typewriter the baby teeth and broken rattle, write baby rape coffee table books as a challenge. Is this disturbing enough yet? Do you understand these references? All the pedophiles and serial killers in training, line up for the group photo and disappear in immortal oblivion like Jack in the ending to The Shining. Disappear like your grand material that ultimately says nothing. Saying nothing about life or eternity. Say how terrible it all is on repeat and rely on those bearded critics and associates to praise you in favor. Pay no favor to the victim. Pay no favor to those who aspire higher. My pain is worse than yours and you can only aspire to write contradiction. This is an open challenge as to who can truly create the most fucked-up fiction. Retreat to your echo-chamber of sycophants who aspire to be you, sucking your dick for a pull quote or mention. Spin in circles writing just like them, aiming far below the average reader’s comprehension then appraise yourself as transgressive. But all it amounts to is the writing of a gay pedophile obsessive. You hope your writing hurts to be read, tricking the curious (just like your twink hanger-on) to read it and hope you inflict your words like AIDS or the latest terminal disease in line. But it’s only a puff piece, a shadow of what violence truly is, a philosophy unbounded by the primitive attempt to contain madness. Pay for your book to be read. Pay for bots to give it 5 stars. Pay for your greatness and be met with silence.
HOLE
The house is white and covered in feces. Infected taints shit out more shit. Gay dead boyfriends line the hallways with needles still stuck in the veins. Above them is a graffiti inviting more for a good time. Have pity for the pedophile in denial. Have pity for the serial killer fag who has yet to coerce a twink slave to do their bidding and write their blog. Write very short CP to taunt the reader over how great I am and what morons in the art scene appraise my work. Shitty taint and dumb bitch brains unscrewed and smashed by hairy hands and fingertips with wet ink after ejaculating to Samuel Delaney’s Hogg for the umpteenth time. Make you puke and gag. Get appraised by forgotten 80’s micro celebs and art photographers with other associations. Go to your gay club with sheep skin diplomas from Yale and Harvard and jerk off over how great it is to be a writer of gay pedophile serial killer porn. Create “The Story of Little Nancy” and reference actual Child Porn Snuff Films filtering through the surface web in .gif and cursed WebP expressions. Asking how far can I go with it? Be the gay man with a blog featuring shirtless twinks and dedicate whole sections to nipple amputation and call those nipples baby penises for shock humor and applause from your seclusion of gay pedophiles in training –your devoted fans and Patreon subscribers. The hallways are encrusted with roaches and feces while the gay serial killer mucks about drooling over their next high-profile article in the New Yorker and “transgressive” art zines preside over cyphers descended from the ruling class who play act as Sade and Rimbaud. Grow pedophiliac moustaches like the unfortunate Rimbaud in old age. Mock the pain of others and brag about your drunken voyages and females you paid for to play-act as the underage Lolita as undressed by the wannabe Nabokov. All these bad actors of drama in the playpen of gay rapist serial killer fiction passing out pamphlets saying “How to be transgressive.” Who cares about the gay man who can’t have his ideal twink slave? Who cares about the man who cannot be wed and projects their hate onto the underage female they wish to be a man? Who cares about your poetry recalling shitty taints? Is this disturbing enough for you? Shall I assume the perspective of the killer who is pretending to be the author of their imagined crimes? Become the bearded critic writing a review of ‘Daisy’s Destruction’ for the Arts & Culture section for clickbait websites. Such elegant prose one would hope not to imitate. “Fucking shit hole ripped her guts out through a fistula cunt Little Nancy sucked the smegma load from dirty dick holes and asses fucked with razor blades puking into the 80’s carpet atop 1st editions of the George Milles Cycle wiping blood and piss off the cover for Ebay reselling and buying up old porn magazines from those neglected corners scanning them for historical research gay Pee-Wee-Herman muscle mags and be backed up by your connections in gay gloryhole research and industrial music. Grind up all the transgressive writing in a blender and force-feed it into the holes of the starving African sold into sex slavery all for research and dark web vistas, Ask Jeeves where to go for the best sites of human trafficking and take a selfie for an author’s photo in the sleeve of your precious book of gay pedophile serial killer fiction atop the mountain of bodies impaling the other paid by the quarter like William S. Burroughs bragging about two kids fucking for a nickel while Arthur C. Clark’s pedophile star burns brightest and disintegrates from raw sexual expulsion of the darkest desires and worshipped by the Science Fiction Writers Association. Play to activist groups and scream “Nigger faggot!” as you slam the stake in the heart of good nature and good expressions, scream “Free Palestine and death to Israel” as you shake hands with those Hasidic critics and editors, be duplicitous in your self-marketing and stand in two circles of the charlatan, make friends with other wannabes and proclaim the convicted pedophile and give them a pull quote and visit their artistic exhibitions lined side-by-side with John Wayne Gacy paintings and Ted Bundy poetry. Put it all together in a soup of shit and bile and cut up children skewered like shish kabob to flavor the stew. Take the remains and boil the bone, take the skin and bound it to your book of fetishes and call it fiction. Stab into the brains of the curious teenager and hope to warp them, be no different than influencers that show porn to change the sexuality of the naïve and young viewer. Bash into the keyboard and typewriter the baby teeth and broken rattle, write baby rape coffee table books as a challenge. Is this disturbing enough yet? Do you understand these references? All the pedophiles and serial killers in training, line up for the group photo and disappear in immortal oblivion like Jack in the ending to The Shining. Disappear like your grand material that ultimately says nothing. Saying nothing about life or eternity. Say how terrible it all is on repeat and rely on those bearded critics and associates to praise you in favor. Pay no favor to the victim. Pay no favor to those who aspire higher. My pain is worse than yours and you can only aspire to write contradiction. This is an open challenge as to who can truly create the most fucked-up fiction. Retreat to your echo-chamber of sycophants who aspire to be you, sucking your dick for a pull quote or mention. Spin in circles writing just like them, aiming far below the average reader’s comprehension then appraise yourself as transgressive. But all it amounts to is the writing of a gay pedophile obsessive. You hope your writing hurts to be read, tricking the curious (just like your twink hanger-on) to read it and hope you inflict your words like AIDS or the latest terminal disease in line. But it’s only a puff piece, a shadow of what violence truly is, a philosophy unbounded by the primitive attempt to contain madness. Pay for your book to be read. Pay for bots to give it 5 stars. Pay for your greatness and be met with silence.
Shaneequa
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Oct 11, 2020
That one was so transparently just self-insert ejaculation on a page. Dunno why people pretend it's not just because there's 15-page rambling sessions in between "sex" scenes.
So transgressive theres 8k matches for the main element of Hogg on ao3.
- Joined
- Aug 17, 2022
Forgive me if this sounds like I'm bitching - which I admittedly am - just a little brain-burnt right now.
Anyways, that's my update for now. Going good, not needing any help, just venting a wee bit for now.
EDIT: Spelling and grammar check
Been wracking my brain about that character concept issue I mentioned previously; not much I can do when I'm stuck at work with nothing to do. Basically stuck between three different character concepts that I like, and each of them does have their own distinct "plot" for the story going ahead, so I can't just combine the three of them, much as I wish I could. So far, mostly just doing a bit more freeform writing on the side whenever I get the chance, see which one I like the best; first's got a ton of potential story hook but is fairly boring overall, second one I personally really like but I'm still developing it, while the third is somewhere in the middle of the two but kinda misses out on a certain plot idea that I want to use.
Current idea is to run the designs through some smaller mini-plots to figure out which one has the best overall "feel", so to speak. Already ran the first design through a plot and found it rather wanting - might ditch it - though the second and third options both gave me some surprisingly fun ideas; got some suggestions for a plot for the second one now, and the third is being surprisingly consistent.
Current idea is to run the designs through some smaller mini-plots to figure out which one has the best overall "feel", so to speak. Already ran the first design through a plot and found it rather wanting - might ditch it - though the second and third options both gave me some surprisingly fun ideas; got some suggestions for a plot for the second one now, and the third is being surprisingly consistent.
Anyways, that's my update for now. Going good, not needing any help, just venting a wee bit for now.
EDIT: Spelling and grammar check
Last edited:
- Joined
- May 21, 2019
Because he's (Delaney) a literal gaynigger, not to mention a NAMBLA member (boyfucking pedophile) and a hobofucker and all of these things were and still are considered "cool" by the kinds of shitrimming cocksucking child molesting bottom feeder hacks who join and run organizations like Fatrick Tomlinson's SFWA (which Delaney is a "grand
Shaneequa
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Oct 11, 2020
I mean, I figured that when the MC of Hogg was a black albino and the author was also a black albino. I literally didn't bother to read anything about Delaney beyond that cause the rest of it you can kind of assume.
Also, I've heard nothing good about SFWA, just that they fund Pat's frivolous lawsuits.
- Joined
- May 21, 2019
It's definitely a case of the author being exactly what you'd expect him to be, but knowing just how many of the obvious boxes he ticks and who his friends are is important for contextual purposes because there's an entire network of faggots exactly like this who've been around for decades and never really seem to go away as the "tastemakers" and "emeriti" of these types of "transgressive", usually overtly "progressive-minded" (or sometimes, albeit more rarely and far less prominently, conservative but in the most milquetoast/mealy mouthed way imaginable) literary circles;
It's almost always a bunch of literal or just about literal fags/faghags in a series of ass-to-mouth daisy chains more concerned with getting laid/partying/schmoozing in their chosen "scene" than actually writing or promoting anything interesting, genuinely risky, or even timely.
- Joined
- Apr 10, 2021
I've been smashing through that story I was considering posting to Royal Road now that the kids aren't making me sick for weeks at a time and decided to publish it properly. My revisions are coming alone quite well and I'm feeling good about it.
Those mini plots are a good idea but why don't you write all three versions and see how they go? I think you need to excise this project out of your system since you're so hung up on it.
Last edited:
- Joined
- Aug 17, 2022
I, uh, actually did. I wasn't going to post this until a bit later, because I've been a bit on a roll right now and I wanted to make some more progress first, but I got the three mini-plots all jotted down and I've officially gotten the character concept I can use. Still ironing out a few kinks, but that section is basically finalized now.
Currently working on the main plot itself; what started out as a smaller project has gradually snowballed into something a LOT bigger, and I'm loving it so far. Progress is slow thanks to IRL stuff like my job taking up most of my free time and such, but I'm honestly having a blast even now.
Slownic
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Sep 19, 2025
I was initially going to join the special class in college because my mom thought I would fit in and discover myself. No. Fucking hell no. My instructor is this hag going through a midlife crisis. She feels as if she doesn't have a sense of belonging, so she collects whatever is going on with teenagers these days and tries to relate to them. They/them pronouns, buzzwords, tone policing, all that shit. She doesn't have the slightest clue on the struggles of retards such as myself. I guess to each their own, but fuck that.
The students here are insecure about their status as people who think different. They are fed numerous lies throughout social media, television, newspapers, magazines, their own groups of fake friends, normies, the broader internet, et cetera. They have limited interests because they are afraid that they might be judged by their peers who pretend to like them.
I once said "NORMIES REEEEE" ironically in a Zoom chat one time when agreeing on a certain issue, rate me dumb and autistic for that one. A kid told me I was ableist and I shouldn't say that. A genuine tard who attended the class was infodumping on her special interest in psychology and human genetics, and she was silenced because she was being ableist. Another kid did a presentation on alexythimia or however its spelt and this crone had the audacity to tell her that her research on it is wrong.
Maybe she is "neurodivergent", but I personally reject that label because it puts genuine people into types instead of defining who they really are. Undergraduate schools are supposed to help you learn, but some people would be purely the artsy type or the science-y type and then become completely hopeless in life. She seemingly doesn't seem like the type to care about helping kids who struggle, because she admits she is trying to fit in with her daughter whom I assume is also a basic bitch.
It's true that girls don't get diagnosed very often and I admittedly follow some female creators who take advantage of hopeless men who say that they also feel this way too. Demondice has ADHD and obsessive tendencies. Shachimu also has ADHD and likely on the spectrum. My EXPR 180 instructor, however, is a lost cause trying to be cool with today's world.
I'm tired man.
The students here are insecure about their status as people who think different. They are fed numerous lies throughout social media, television, newspapers, magazines, their own groups of fake friends, normies, the broader internet, et cetera. They have limited interests because they are afraid that they might be judged by their peers who pretend to like them.
I once said "NORMIES REEEEE" ironically in a Zoom chat one time when agreeing on a certain issue, rate me dumb and autistic for that one. A kid told me I was ableist and I shouldn't say that. A genuine tard who attended the class was infodumping on her special interest in psychology and human genetics, and she was silenced because she was being ableist. Another kid did a presentation on alexythimia or however its spelt and this crone had the audacity to tell her that her research on it is wrong.
Maybe she is "neurodivergent", but I personally reject that label because it puts genuine people into types instead of defining who they really are. Undergraduate schools are supposed to help you learn, but some people would be purely the artsy type or the science-y type and then become completely hopeless in life. She seemingly doesn't seem like the type to care about helping kids who struggle, because she admits she is trying to fit in with her daughter whom I assume is also a basic bitch.
It's true that girls don't get diagnosed very often and I admittedly follow some female creators who take advantage of hopeless men who say that they also feel this way too. Demondice has ADHD and obsessive tendencies. Shachimu also has ADHD and likely on the spectrum. My EXPR 180 instructor, however, is a lost cause trying to be cool with today's world.
I'm tired man.
This is written with pure unfiltered tranny rage.
- Joined
- Feb 19, 2020
I am so fucking bad at this, I actually astonish myself
I'm already drinking, but maybe I'll remember this tomorrow
- Joined
- Feb 22, 2024
If you are truly a creative, then boozing comes naturally. It’s all a matter of not having too many deviances and keeping that chain tight on them.
At least, that’s what it’s been for me, avoiding slipping into melancholy, because otherwise, my writing sessions produce the most worthless, self-pitying and melodramatic crap to ever grace my screen.