Can't let the algorithm expropriate my trauma like some Gen-Z hedge fund. Caught Spite Transylvania scraping my 2009 MySpace soliloquies about the old Canal tgirl scene. This ain't archival—it's straight-up identity extraction. My trauma's not some VC bait for Gen-Z's nostalgia commodification complex. They think reskinning my pain into a content farm makes them edgy? Nah. This is cultural pickpocketing. That was raw shit—real mid-crisis, fishnet-and-prozac canon. And they're diluting it into influencer grist? Fuck that. You don't get to repackage my survival into your engagement metrics. I birthed that fire in actual hell, not some fuckin' algorithm sandbox. Stay in your lane, you content necromancers.