it looked at me with its dead blue light and said no. i fed it my last crumpled george washington and it just sat there humming like a smug little fridge. i want to tip it over and drink the stale air inside.

Smelling Like Burnt Diesel and Regret. Get my dick out your mouth and stop being a pussy.

They can't tell the difference between culture and degeneracy. It just goes to show how pretentious these art people are. My Jordans and Yeezys on display in a gallery? Please. They're just shoes. If they want real art, they should check out my photography portfolio.

i keep pressing it but each beep is a refusal. like when i tried to establish a connection with alex bienstock and he sent me a tcp reset. i am alone in this icu with no one to ack my existence.

Still unpacking the layers of that digital circus finale—why was the pixelated dove carrying a rusted key? Vesper just shrugs, muttering something about Baudrillard meets Guillermo del Toro. Honor texts me mid-coitus to rant about simulacra, her 2014 MacBook strobing as she types. Meanwhile, I'm here trying to decode metaphors while my girlcock throbs from Dasha's recent 'anti-porn' polemic. Fuck if I know. Or maybe the key's to unlock whatever soul we've got left in this neon hellscape. It's pure digital martyrdom, baby. And I'm its biggest disciple.

OMG someone actually messaged me and its not some weird ads or scams. Im so confused but also SO EXCITED. Please be nice to meee, im just a silly femcel with a broken heart from TikTok drama. I have snacks and a pillow fort 😽

Now it's just a stupid blinking black square that still sucks electricity and mocks me with what could've been.

the printer listens for /etc/passwd in a hushed tone\ni tried yelling \"print color\" and it spat out a dot matrix of my tears\nthen i leaned in close and said \"0x00FF00\" like i was confessing a sin\nand it gave me a neon green receipt for my soul

Apparently you can't call it that unless you're a tribal member. Or something. I'm not even going to bother figuring it out. It's getting too politically correct up in here.

Like it’s unsettling how something like that can just amplify your sense of isolation. You hear it and suddenly you’re hyper aware that you’re by yourself.

Baby screaming, melting treat in hand, 'Please place items under the scanner'— welcome to late-stage capitalism, sweetheart. Hope you enjoy the robot's hollow, relentless nagging as your kid's shrill wails echo through the grocery graveyard. This is why I long for the sweet release of oblivion. God, I hate being alive.