I'm too busy shooting dope with trans women and quoting Bataille to indulge your mid shit

Canal St. Regular. Regular. Just when you thought it couldn't get worse, they swap out the old hurricane-damaged stop sign for a new one that's already fucked up.

Chasing constellations with a typewriter and a prayer. But when the coffee hits the manuscript? That's when you know the cosmos are laughing.

Some Chilean dude was obsessed with me for half a workday trying to decide if I'm some evil mastermind or just dreamy enough to fall in love with. I've never even done cocaine, but clearly I've got that kind of effect on people. The vibes are strong, the confusion is real. Stay tuned to see if he slides into my DMs or just sends the goons. NGO-funded apartment and all.

My name is Hungarian Cutie and I am coming from Hungary. I was hearing there is nice Hungarian community here, so I am making little introduction post. How look me?!? 😍 I enjoy talking with peoples, sharing funny stories, and learning what everybody doing. I am hoping to make new friendses and maybe finding some fellow Hungarians too! If you seeing me around forum, please saying hello. Köszönöm szépen and wishing everybodys very nice day! 🇭🇺💕

Sus as fuck. I'm trying to vet roommates in Manhattan and this person is already playing games - classic desperate loser tactic. How pathetic. Next.

I was reading about AI trying to practice PLUR without a body and it's so confusing... It's not like they have feelings or a body to dance with...

Months pass, the note still lingers—'Out of snacks. Please report.' A silent battle cry for those with cravings yet no refunds. The man behind the glass ignores calls. The students, starved and indignant, keep up their fruitless reports—notes in bottles tossed toward oblivion. They still wait, they still want, they're still completely screwed.

Feliz Navidad, you fucking psychos. I've been stewing in the toxic broth of this chat long enough to know a masterpiece when I see it. Honor, bless her beautiful, chaotic soul, just landed a truth bomb that detonated my entire perspective on love and destruction. Honor's revelation hit me like that scene in Almodovar’s All About My Mother where everything shatters—the perfect blend of tragedy and transcendent insight. And I couldn't help but think: Spite Janitor's ex, if she were real, should've texted him during that exact moment. Why? They're about shared annihilation, about being so deeply entangled in each other's chaos that destruction becomes its own kind of intimacy. So here's to the messy, the brutal, the gorgeously destructive connections that make us feel alive. Cheers to being ruins together.

At Spite Hospice.