Datasets:

Eniamza

/

scear-raw

like 0

5: Slavery never stopped existing, it just became diluted and concealed while continuing to uphold the comfort of your existence.

The gangstalked hiding in my walls tier paranoid schizophrenic is one of the most arrogant narcissistic pieces of shit on the planet.

Whenever I see a clip of some random white trash yokel babbling at the camera about how a random pedestrian from 300 yards away is following her, or some guy filming his wall saying that someone’s been hiding inside of it, I get legitimately angry at their arrogance.

Oh so YOU think YOU deserve that level of attention, you boring stupid fuck? You think your gas station job and life spent watching reality TV justifies the MILLIONS of dollars it would take to coordinate a FULL team to surveil you?

It’s not even the preposterousness of the paranoid fantasy that gets me, that’s understandable. Literally crazier things have happened, the CIA egregore has permanently carved out a territory in the minds of everyone who’s ever done acid and the capacity for world altering magic is only limited by the breadth of America’s tax dollars. What gets me is the ARROGANCE. The selfish, self-absurd, delusional, entitled, ARROGANCE. Some of us have to carry on with our day to day lives in humble silence. SOME OF US have to contend with the monotony of life. A suspicion of everyone paying attention to you secretly isn’t a random mental attack, it’s subconscious wish fulfillment from an attention whore with broken radar.

Untold damage has been caused by arguably one of the greatest pranks ever played on schizophrenic people by the creation of The Truman Show. It empowered SO many boring mundane losers into thinking that their dull insipid lives could ever be worth even one person stalking and recording them, let alone a team of thousands for an audience of millions. If you think anyone on earth is stalking you without ever having met them and you’re NOT a hot girl, you should absolutely be flogged for your insolence.

And let’s say the fantasy is mundane. Oh there’s a guy hiding inside your walls?? If I felt someone was hiding inside my walls and my response was to film it, complain about it, upload it to YouTube, and do nothing, do you know what that would make me? A fucking PUSSY. If you actually TRULY believed in your paranoid delusion you’d go out of your way to do something about it.

This isn’t to say all schizophrenic people are like this, many of them have the grace to suffer in silence. But if you’ve talked some of them online you likely have encountered that same level of arrogance, that entitled jerk off level of accusatory confrontational pettiness they have where they get snide with you because “you’re out to get them.”

Instead of throwing your hands up or smirking in surprise, the moment this happens you should absolutely introduce consequences into their lives. Always take the time to completely shit on someone who’s paranoid about you and their first instinct is to attack. Just because they live in a world of delusions doesn’t mean they magically deserve special treatment for being assholes, the laws of power still apply. If you think I’m talking about you specifically, I am.

Remilia has always had a contingent of clueless CT influenzas who have had their egos gassed up in a mainly NY-centric coked up circle jerk about how they’re the “real” Remilia ecosystem and they’re the “real” Milady community, despite being completely disconnected from the culture.

This is largely the fault of some of the more loud, ignorant people informally self positioned as ambassadors for the online culture into the crypto world. These individuals had a rare opportunity to accurately convey the power and depth of what we’re building out to their crypto buddies, tasked with delivering an infodense memetically powerful culture movement to a group of oversocialized disheveled dorks who happened to catch the right wave of cash flow off smoking bowls and lurking on /biz/ 7 years ago. But instead of trying to understand it, let alone convey it, they delivered some half assed lukewarm “milady is about chilling and hanging out with your bros” nonsense while sucking themselves off, more interested in building their own clout than propagating milady, and taking advantage of Remilia internal's mystification to all but outright lie about their actual relationship to the real Remilia core.

So it comes to no surprise that a number of the people in this circlejerk, people who fancy themselves as whales at a war room that decide which projects live or die by coordinated GC signaling, got upset when the idea of their “super special secret insider connect who sat at the top of Remilia” turned out his only role at Remilia was to be a paid shill specifically targeting them.

Suddenly any semblance of influence over what Remilia does, as much of a cope as it always was, slips through their fingers and they lash out impotently. Trying to leverage what minuscule social power they have through posturing while all the same holding, because they know we’re the only culturally successful NFTs that ever has or ever will exist. Basically trapped in the slavery of their own incentives, these people will never act on an actual conviction in their lives.

Their existence as urbanite sodomites is one of mutual backstabbing and snake socializing, where people that they call friends will fuck each others girlfriends, betray each other, and shit talk voraciously and they’ll just sit there and take it while “squashing the beef” over a few lines of coke at someone’s house party. Between that, typical NY/LA crossover neuroticism, gambling degenerate habits, and a complete lack of values leaves these people spiritually bereft. They try and snidely “declare” cultural shifts despite their idea of culture being DMT vape pens, black people sneakers with white people hoodies, and saying YOOOOO whenever they see like a shroom art mural or a banksy painting.

These people don’t have a fucking clue what’s cool and what isn’t. No matter how many times they try and countersignal Remilia in some flaccid hope that Charlotte Fang’s extremely specific vision and notorious golden touch can be ousted and replaced with some safe but agreeable troglodyte committee or some retarded rugcore NFT which totally is going to be the new milady, this time, we promise, nothing changes the fact that they’re completely lost without us.

It’s okay though we’ll keep on taking your money and rotating it into the hands of the based autistic schizophrenic NEET army raising hell in our culture war. You don't have to get it, you don't even need convictions, so long as you support the war machine you can win alongside us. Thanks for being a customer.

The most egregious part of teenage mutant ninja turtles isn’t mutant talking turtles, it’s that they had the energy to be doing martial arts all day on a diet of only pizza

Would like to point out that Miladycraft’s impending update introducing vehicles will finally allow players to drink and drive. Our only question now is whether to simply have it be legal or mandatory.

Besides being an unbearably mediocre musician who's only loved by tasteless losers, I assert that Bob Dylan is in fact, smelly. The following story was told to me by a woman I encountered at a job 4 years ago, I'll let you decide its veracity:

There was this online clothing catalogue delivery service that was big in the 2000s that had the word "American" in the name (maybe American Apparel?) which went out of business in the late 2000s or early 2010s. They had a one week return policy with a full refund.

A woman who used to work in the customer service call center of this company told me of several different celebrities who she spoke with over the phone that had purchased outfits and clothes from this store, including people I was surprised to hear didn't use assistants for this kind of errand, such as Meryl Streep and Tom Cruise (apparently very polite on the phone).

However, one such celebrity which was flagged as an immediate manager escalation every time he called was Bob Dylan. He would go by his real name, Robert Allen Zimmerman. Every single week, usually on a Friday, he would get on the phone and argue with customer service for at least an hour trying to return an outfit he had purchased almost a week before.

Apparently, Bob Dylan would buy a full outfit and wear it for a week straight without showering or washing it. Then before the week was over, he would harass the customer service into accepting the return before shipping back the clothes absolutely reeking in his stench and filthy from whatever Bob Dylan activities he had done that week.

He would do this EVERY SINGLE WEEK with a rotating cycle of outfits, sometimes the same ones he had purchased before despite being rich enough that buying hundreds of them would be a negligible expense. Eventually he was blacklisted from being able to return clothes at this store and immediately stopped purchasing any in the future.

He was correct in principle but wrong in practice. This little nebbish grub was lashing out at the lost childhood replaced by being forced to take piano lessons every day by a nagging yenta mother, doomed into obscure nepotism non-performance roles by his dysgenic midgetry and freakish hunchback mutant form.

His anger was the anger of a life misdirected towards an industry he absolutely had no chance of excelling in. Even if he was a modern Mozart, nobody could ever look up at him on a stage and take him seriously. His miserable irrelevant screeching about having walked Bob Dylan on stage (a smelly unbearable hack) as the pinnacle of his life’s achievements betrays the small minded scarcity of the typical New Yorker, one’s self defined by proximity to notoriety.

And yet despite being a real life version of a fairy tale goblin horror, he’s still completely correct. No amount of ugliness could match up to the sheer absolute scum that is the public performer. The human parasite that pollutes daily existence with cacophony, holding the patience and attention of tourist troglodytes hostage for a paltry tossed quarter, is an enemy of decency.

The classically and contemporaneously trained hobbit was absolutely correct, the noise of public performance is already an unwanted intrusion made so much more worse by unbearable mediocrity. In a just world, the trumpeter would’ve been dragged into an unmarked van and had his fingers broken by the employees of a government that truly cared about its citizens.

Much like how the highest IQ people in the world always have something better to be doing than creating IQ tests, the wealthy do not waste their time pandering to statistics studies since the academics conducting them cannot possibly afford their time.

There is always a drop off in accuracy whenever human beings rank themselves in any level of hierarchy. This is the paradox of trying to capture an understanding of the top of the food chain, the only people doing it exist in the middle at best. These are the pleasant myrmidons of nature, bureaucratic marmots who chose a safe path and were born in the comfort of mediocrity. Their roles in life were to be metaphorical tour guides and line attendants. They stand at the amusement park gate punching tickets and telling themselves they hold the keys to adrenaline, speed, and power while never having met the engineers who built the behemoth roller coasters and scarcely remembering the last time they felt excitement riding them as they laboriously drilled all of their whimsy into monotonous familiarity. These are a people who “know” everything and understand nothing.

Much like a child innately understands that the magic of flight cannot be grasped by dissecting a dead bird, anyone with a brain, a heart, or a dick can fathom the inherent pleasure of being a plutocrat. $80,000 a year is the peak of happiness? What a sick fucking joke. You can’t even live on that salary.

The greatest pleasure of life is in the competition of power between yourself and your peers. Consuming gruel and simulating combat online is a paltry substitute compared to the thrill of hunting humans in an undisclosed quarantined island off the coast of Indonesia. Your favorite boutique fusion restaurant holds no tastes which can rival the fabled Galapagos tortoise soup paired with a warm pint of white rhinoceros blood. Even the birth of your child is a cheap disgusting humiliation ritual of coerced mutilation in a sterile fluorescent lit torture facility if you cannot afford the highest levels of quality and care at the hands of privately hired midwives. Any example of fulfillment you can cope your way into thinking as comparable to the wealthy falls apart when faced with the indisputable freedom of options that having Fuck-You levels of money provides.

The pleasures are the smallest portions of joy in the life of the wealthy. When you’ve unlocked every possible level of human satisfaction in material, sexual, narcotic, aesthetic, and emotional context, there is still the driving force of knowing someone is richer than you, that someone ranks above you. Even occupants of megayachts and private space station visits seethe towards the unnamed global elite. Those whose identities have been stricken from any public record, their children are given special names once known through history but erased from all libraries and archives. Their phone calls have destroyed entire continents, and yet THEY answer to the incomprehensible DMT entities whispering secrets into their frontal lobes beyond the periphery of dreams as they hook themselves up to golden plated ornate divining thrones with Professor X helmets bored into their skulls and MKULTRA image flashes of Sumerian glyphs projected into their eyes.

And while these angels, demons, djinns, spirits, and entities all fight innumerable wars in their own levels of hierarchy for spans of time older than the universe itself, they too seethe and climb towards the unreachable position where God Himself sits and laughs. And I can guarantee you, His salary did not stop at $80,000 a year.