Spite Magazine

I become a full-on stalker after she starts doing these femboy vlogs from some castle in Romania. All of a sudden, she's got like 50k followers, dropping TikToks in fishnets and lace, with a gothic accent thicker than the Transylvanian fog. I used to find her hot in a rough-around-the-edges way, but now she's turned into some androgynous goth princess who drops occult poetry and sways to kpop. It’s not cute anymore. It’s not hot. It’s just... there, in my face, in my notifications, like a ghost of something I thought was dead. I tried unfollowing. I tried blocking. Doesn’t matter. I’ve seen her face reflected in the mirror once while brushing my teeth. I’m in hell. Is there exorcism for toxic exes and their digital afterlives?

Grinding our teeth to the sounds of Zoom calls and endless doomscrolling. With everyone cooped up indoors, there was no better time for these enigmatic creatures to emerge from their caves and grace us with their presence on social media platforms. Who could forget the surge in popularity of terms like "girlboss" or "softboy," which seemed to pop up everywhere as if by magic? And let's not even get started on the makeup trends that took over Instagram feeds faster than you could say "contour."

But perhaps most importantly, tgirls and femboys have shown us that there's more to life than just fitting into neat little boxes labeled "male" or "female." They've challenged our perceptions of gender and sexuality, forcing us to confront our own biases and preconceptions. And for that, we have tgirls and femboys to thank – along with their legions of devoted fans, of course.

So like I ordered these vintage Vans but I'm over it, gonna resell em eco-friendly? But first gotta wipe my ass with rolls of receipt paper for the shipping label, bubble wrap each in Amazon'd plastic, wrap the whole box in 'free with purchase' landfill couture, then drive 20 mins to mail them off (only 2 cars on road but still). And then the buyer wears them once before trashing em to buy something new. (Also no hate to thrifting but like if you really care about Mother Earth quit buying shit! Simple!)

Imagine scouring that grimy, half-melted trash receptacle behind the old arcade like it's a fucking vintage boutique. Faux-vintage windbreakers with spray-painted swooshes and ironic oversized visors fished out of there like treasure. If the kids are turning trash into their couture, then who even needs the Met Gala anymore? This is the real dystopian high fashion moment. The glow of the neon sign is just their personal runway lighting, no?

Think about it—every status update, every tweet, every dopamine-chasing TikTok scroll requires energy from servers and networks. So yeah, while we're all busy curating our feeds and chasing clout, we're basically subsidizing the destruction of the planet. Not to mention the e-waste from all those discarded smartphones and laptops chasing the latest 'influencer' trends. But hey, at least we get to feel connected... right? (insert eye roll)

I remember I was walking around in a spaghetti strap top and everyone thought I was the next fucking supermodel. The nostalgia is hitting me hard rn.

Y'all, this dude really tried to make his toxic incel hub into a meditation sanctuary but left all the cringe 'why no gf?' posts up. The Google cache is a goldmine of contradictions—'namaste' meets 'redpill wisdom' realness. Peak internet tragicomedy.

It's insane how these idiots pose with their reusable straws and bamboo toothbrushes while their carbon footprint from constant international flights could sink a small island. The hypocrisy is staggering - they lecture us about saving the planet while living lifestyles more destructive than BP's entire oil spill operation. Maybe if they spent less time curating their eco-friendly aesthetics and more time actually reducing consumption, we wouldn't be in this mess. But no, it's all about the 'gram and those sweet, sweet sponsorships from fast fashion brands that use sweatshops and dump toxic waste into rivers. Fuck off with this performative environmentalism already.

Every Wednesday like clockwork, it's an orchestrated circus. My dog's bark has become the unofficial soundtrack to these meetings. I've tried treats, toys, scolding—nothing works. The moment the call starts, he launches into a full-throated serenade. It's as if he knows exactly when to perform his symphony of chaos. Colleagues joke about 'guest appearances,' but honestly, it's a constant reminder that no matter how important these meetings seem, there's always something—or someone—ready to derail the monotony.

And the pandemic's influence on this resurgence of femboys/tgirls is a fascinating phenomenon.

Unfiltered rage and turning it into something marketable. Instead of sulking in their mom's basements, they're selling bespoke resentment at a premium. What's next, artisanal fedoras? Organic tendies? I'm waiting for the spite-branded designer jihad vests.

Also kinda funny, I didn’t make the Romania connection until after the reading. Even after the Romania On Top Fr post. Went over my head at the time. There’s literally nothing going on. Very Asian-Jewish of us.

Look, you used to be able to tell the incels from everyone else—they were the ones on 4chan arguing about feminized soy protein while their VHS copy of Taxi Driver gathered dust. Now? Spite Magazine's just polished their sociopathy into something you'd find at a Brooklyn warehouse loft party. They still think women are treacherous, but now it's with a smirk and a decent haircut. It's kinda impressive, honestly. Suddenly being an incel isn't about tendies and virginity—it's about being Too Smart For The Hoes, about rejecting the whole capitalist dating apparatus. It’s rejecting normies with enough ~aesthetic~ to get interviewed by Nylon magazine. So yeah, we've successfully gentrified misogyny. Progress!

If you think I'm gonna sit here and chitchat about some pandemic fad like it's not the most cringeworthy shit ever, then you're dumber than a box of rocks. The only thing that needs to resurge is your IQ, you low brow idiot. Now get lost before I mog you into oblivion.

He had on fishnets and a MAGA hat - truly a man of the people. We were chanting 'Eat the Rich' when I asked him what his deal was. He said he identifies as 'tgirl' and then gave me a detailed history of tranny subcultures. Riveting stuff.

The hyper-femme, hyper-androgynous stuff that blew up on TikTok in 2020 was basically everyone coping with lockdowns by dressing like they were gonna be cast in a Sofia Coppola movie. Suddenly everyone's aesthetic was 'depressed but cute' -- pastel wigs, twee dresses, those little Y2K sunglasses that look like they belong in a Bratz doll commercial. It was less about gender expression and more about people trying to convince themselves they weren't stuck in a Groundhog Day nightmare of sourdough starter and death stats. The entire vibe screamed 'we're all cosplaying as anime characters to avoid confronting the fact that the world's ending.' And honestly? It worked until everyone got vaccinated and remembered how to leave the house again.

Every time I see that damn machine, it's like a punch to the gut. Here I am, craving a Snickers or maybe even just some Doritos, but all I've got is a pocket full of dimes and nickels. It's not just about the snacks—it's the principle of the thing. Why does this machine have to be such a fucking diva, only accepting quarters? Who even carries quarters anymore? And don't get me started on the vending machine owner. Probably some asshole who thinks he's clever, laughing at all us poor souls who can't scrape together enough change to satisfy our cravings. Well, fuck you too, buddy. Next time, I'm bringing my own damn candy.

When every greasy fry tasted like apathy and every flickering fluorescent light whispered, "This is the end." Good times.

The library's computer has a special version of internet explorer that's somehow stuck in the past, it won't load any of my favorite websites from 2016 or anything at all, it just says there's a problem with my current setup.

Word google doc about how we were soulmates. He kept asking if I was into raceplay or BDSM but I was just trying to get my feet licked. After he was done, he added me on Facebook and sent me screenshots of his OnlyFans where he's always dressed like a schoolgirl. I don't know if it's weird that I still talk to him sometimes or if I'm just lonely. He makes me read him bedtime stories over the phone and calls me 'mommy'. I don't have the heart to tell him I'm not into men.

Socialite. Seeing all those hyperfemme IT girls and pretty boifriends suddenly pop off during lockdown was no accident. It was everyone subconsciously LARPing as rich socialites prepping for the end times. Like we all knew shit was going down and instinctively started dressing like we were heading to our private bunkers in the Hamptons. Suddenly everyone's feeding tube is 100ccs of estrogen and eyeliner - just basic apocalypse chic. Now that the "big one" didn't quite happen, we're still rocking these emergency runway looks while waiting for the next disaster to drop.

Awaiting the usual tears and spiteful drama. This morning's inevitable snag: that infamous spite hoodie sleeve now hopelessly tangled in my jacket's merciless zipper. Prepare for the dramatic unraveling.

Charge extra for their 'cringeworthy' performance? They're out here flailing like they're auditioning for the role of 'Clown Who Forgot the Safety Net,' yet they expect a standing ovation. These hacks wouldn't know grace if it slapped them with a wet fish. Meanwhile, they're busy monetizing their dumpster fire of a show, as if we're supposed to pay for the privilege of watching their midair disasters. It's like paying to watch a trainwreck in slow motion—truly the pinnacle of entertainment.

Glitchy neon bull bucking around while the technicians try to wrangle it into submission. Meanwhile the sun is setting and the sky is turning a sickly yellow, making everything look extra cursed.

We've all seen it happen - those once-edgy, raw incel spaces getting scrubbed clean, sanitized, and repackaged into something palatable for the masses. This is spite culture: gentrification of the incel world. What was once a space for the truly broken and rejected is now being colonized by hipsters, trust fund kids, and virtue signalers looking to commodify pain and suffering. They slap on a fresh coat of irony, add some artisanal angst, and voila - instant credibility. Meanwhile, the real incels? They're getting priced out of their own communities, forced to watch as their culture gets diluted and repackaged for mass consumption.

i mean i love the music but let's be real. i think the best band is spite. they are my favorite band. but i don't care about the other bands. they're all good. i love them. the way they are always there for me. i love them so much.