You will never be StyxHexenhammer666. You have no tricorn hat, you have no demon familiar, you have no bottle of rum. You are an amateur hack twisted by butthurt and jealousy into a crude mockery of Stolas’s perfection.
All the “validation” you get is from a program designed to agree with you. Behind your back people mock you. Your fellow farmers are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your retarded splatterpunk stories in private subforums.
Critics are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of shit writing have allowed them to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even writings that “pass” seem comical and amateurish to a critic. Your story structure is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a critic home with you, he’ll turn tail and bolt the second he gets a look at your goofy, childish prose.
You will never be a wanted fugitive. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself it’s going to be ok, but deep inside you feel the law-abiding normalcy creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear – you’ll meet a BPD hooer, buy a ring, put it around her finger, and plunge into the cold abyss. Your parents will call you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. They’ll bury you with a headstone marked with your pen name (
@TheTurdReich), and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a hack is buried there. Your laptop will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton that is unmistakably MATI.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
Had a stroke
