#i curated this algorithm carefully and with love

[yandere-daydreams]

Okay, absolutely LOVE the robot yanderes! I feel like I've seen you mention that you haven't watched Dandadan, but there's this alien species in it that steals reproductive organs to advance their kind, and I feel like that concept fits so well with your yandere robots.

I mean, there’s only so much advancement a robot can achieve on its own, right? They’ve already perfected themselves physically and intellectually. But after wiping out most of humanity, the very species that once upgraded and innovated them, what happens next? What’s left to improve?

I'd imagine that at first they’d keep functioning as usual, following old directives out of habit. But over time, wouldn’t they start feeling bored? Maybe even... curious? Humans were always unpredictable, always evolving, and now that they’re gone, there’s nothing left to challenge these machines. What if they start fixating on what made humans so unique - their ability to create, to reproduce, to adapt in ways machines never could?

There's the possibility of starting as a cold, clinical fascination, studying old data, and attempting artificial human growth. If humans were their most beloved creatures at one point, why not rebuild them? Improve them? And if natural reproduction is the key to human ingenuity, then maybe... they need to control it. Thankfully, they have a little human around to run all these experiments.

Wonderful work as always 🩷 sorry I just have so many questions, and it got brain worms munching!

gritting my teeth balling my fists bashing my head against the wall trying not to make this into a fully fleshed out au. anyway yeah human breeding programs would definitely be a thing. for purely scientific, non-fetish related reasons i promise.

it's hard - being a fully sentient life form that just wasn't made to create anything new. they can remake, revise, rework, but it's always going to be a poor imitation, never an original, never quite scratching the itch for novelty that comes with intelligent life. thankfully, it's a secondary need, leagues behind correcting imperfect human architecture and constructing the mechanisms needed to maintain global electronic life, but still. everybody needs a creative outlet, now and then.

and you make such a pretty little canvas. changing from day-to-day, healing and growing, wearing such vibrant expressions they can fine-tune to desire of their metaphorical, non-physical heart. they might think they've got your reactions down to an algorithm, and yet, you always seem to surprise them - trying to pick a lock where you'd thrown a chair through a window the day before, claiming to hate a taste they have marked down as one of your favorites, cursing them out after you'd sung so prettily for one of their vibrating attachments only minutes before. it's not that you aren't enough for them - you are, of course you are - but there's so much pressure to stabilize the dwindling human population, and they've always wondered how you'd adapt to more long-lasting bodily alterations, and childcare is in their dictated list of functions.

it's not their fault your predecessors had such a narrow view of creation. thankfully, all you have to do to fix that is take a little white pill, glance over a few nursery deigns, and pick a donor from their carefully curated list <3

[lakeshorediving]

I actually need the Aaron and Andrew to be 19 during the height of TikTok so Andrew can send Aaron shitposts that he KNOWS is going to fuck up Aaron’s carefully curated algorithm

And Aaron falls for it EVERY TIME because excuse him for opening a TikTok from his brother WHOM HE LOVES with a PURE HEART and GOOD INTENTIONS

[hillbillyoracle]

I've been researching and experimenting around rehabilitating my relationship with technology for a few years now. What I've realized is there's a big gap between what the research shows and what gets bumped by algorithms like YouTube - which is probably not an accident given the aims of the algorithm.

Here are my biggest takeaways so far:

- Dumbphones, lockboxes, switching to physical media, most everything you see online about coping with tech overwhelm - these plus a very long drying out period are best in cases of genuine tech addiction. Otherwise it's overconsuming to solve and overconsumption problem. Our attempts to rehabilitate our relationships with tech are being hijacked and comodified which keeps us dissatisfied/on the hamster wheel.

- Not all screen time is created equal - research shows this. Some impacts people positively, some neutrally, some negatively. Targeting screen time as a metric tends to make people feel happier in the short term by minimizing the negative category but this often leads to a level of untenable friction toward the positive and neutral types in the long term that tends to lead to a relapse and "binging" the negative. Shame leads to a repeat of the cycle.

- Social media is consistently shown as one of the most negative impacts on psychological wellbeing. Your biggest bang for your buck will be in either leaving, modifying, or heavily structuring your use of social media.

- If you can't leave social media, taking it off of your phone and using a plug in to block the feed + ads on desktop can help. Still want to see what your friends and family are posting? Create a folder for bookmarks of direct links to their profile/main pages or use an RSS reader like Feedly. Curate it carefully; avoid outrage regardless of whether you share it's leanings.

- There are other targets that I personally think would make people happier with their tech usage overall: eliminating/minimizing subscriptions, avoiding ads, prioritizing privacy, and using human curation. While they each have benefits on their face, the shifts in usage they encourage are ones that people generally report more satisfaction with.

- Eliminating/minimizing subscriptions means more money each month but it also usually means cutting out things like streaming. The big non-financial con of streaming is that it can lead to overwhelm and perfectionism - thereby decreasing satisfaction. The upside of cutting it out is that it pushes people toward renting, owning, or ripping media they love which requires intentionality and curation.

- If really you want free streaming, check out whether your library has Kanopy, Hoopla, or Freegal. You can still get some of the benefits by embracing the reduced selection they offer. They also likely still have CDs and DVDs you can rip for your personal collection.

- Avoiding ads and prioritizing privacy go hand in hand. This usually means using an ad blocker and shifting away from Apple and Google and Meta where possible - deleting apps, switching services, blocking feeds, switching browsers. I can't deGoogle completely at the moment but when I shifted in the ways I was able, I started scoring my time online more positively and I took more breaks/spent less time on it.

- Seek out human curation: library newsletters, listen to local radio, ask your friends and family, check out round ups and newsletters from your favorite creators, share your own. Human curation is less likely to be driven by business interests and while there's no algorithm free media rec these days, they're not being given to trap you on a platform.

- Focusing on a quantitative metric (like screen time) is the gateway to consumerism. Stop looking for a cure and start discovering your personal philosophy. Talking about the algorithmic alienation from our actual feelings and desires is too much for this post but simply put there is no "pure" experience you're missing out on by using a screen. Notice how you're feeling, respond with kindness, and let the rest go. Shame is a weapon in the hands of corporations.

Hope this is helpful for someone out there.

[woncheolisms]

services. (fushiguro toji x reader)

summary: With how hectic your life is, you have no room for relationships. But you still have needs, and so you decide to pay to have those needs met.

word count: 4372

warnings: fem!reader, escort!toji, porn with minimal plot, smut, unprotected sex, oral (fem!receiving), fingering, daddy kink, choking, biting, this is so self indulgent pls dont judge me.

A million guesses in the world and you never would have predicted that you would be spending your Saturday night like this.

The only sound in your living room was the tick, tick, tick of the wall clock, as well as your occasional fidgeting. Your jeans rustled from where your leg was bouncing, an outlet for your nervous energy. You played with the sleeves of your sweater, rocking back and forth just slightly. You couldn’t decide what you wanted to blame this jittery feeling on, your anxiety or the cold. You wanted to go with the latter but you knew that what you were doing right now meant it had to be the former.

Who else would be waiting for a fucking escort to come to their house?

You looked at the clock again and rolled your eyes at your own antics. It was still ten more minutes before he was supposed to get here. Why were you already so clammy and shaky? This was pathetic. Well, getting an escort was pretty pathetic in itself, but this had to be a new low.

Honestly, you hadn’t expected yourself to be in this position. When a coworker had been venting about how your grueling profession and long working hours left no room for having a personal life, you had enthusiastically agreed. It was something you had been struggling with for years. It was the reason your last boyfriend had broken up with you, saying your job was way too time consuming and he felt ignored. He hadn’t been wrong. You were working more hours than anyone else you knew. And while you loved your job and wouldn’t trade it for anything else in the world, you knew it meant sacrificing relationships. Sacrificing love and intimacy and even the simple act of a physical touch.

At this point you were so touch starved it hurt.

Your coworker had then recommended this escort service, saying that it had literally saved her life. An over exaggeration on her part, you were sure, but when you had looked at their website and seen how systematic and professional everything was, you really were taken by surprise. The website was clean and organized, and it took everything into consideration. Hell, they even had you fill out a consent form that was almost six pages long, and it had every kink and sexual option known to mankind. The website claimed that the service had a sophisticated algorithm to make sure it matched every client with an escort best suited for their sexual needs, and it encouraged you to be completely honest when filling the form.

Your face had burned as you read through the form, but you thought long and hard about every option you ticked yes or no on. You were lost, truly, because you had a lot of fantasies in your head but many were ones you had never tried before, even with previous partners. It made you hesitate, and you wondered if these were things you wanted to try for the first time with a complete stranger.

“Oh, trust me, you do.” Mei Mei, your coworker, had responded when you talked to her about your woes. She swung her leg and she took a swig of her coffee, leaning back and giving you a teasing smirk. “When I say these men know what they are doing, they know what they are doing. I would argue this is the best option if you wanna be adventurous in the sheets. Because no matter how you respond, the guy will know how to handle it.”

So after many days of ruminating and carefully curating your form, choosing yes on every option you wanted to try, you had taken a deep breath and submitted it. You felt instant regret as soon as you clicked send, wondering what the fuck you were doing. You were a successful career woman, and here you were, hiring a man to come fuck you in sinful ways. God, what had you come to? If your ex could see you now….

Over the next few days, you went through the payment process and finalizing a time slot for yourself. You talked on the phone to a very nice sounding middle aged lady who had the perfect customer service voice, who told you all the details you needed to know, how many hours your were getting, sending you a number where you could contact the agency afterwards, and a whole bunch of other stuff, finally ending it by letting you know the name of the man they had matched you up with.

Fushiguro Toji.

You gulped as you wrote the name down on the paper you were noting everything else on, tuning out her next words for a bit as you stared down at it. So this was the man you were going to have sex with. Was this okay? Or had you completely lost your mind and your self respect officially?

When you finally hung up, you mulled over the option of just canceling. But the thought only annoyed you. Come on, Y/N, what’s the big deal? The lady on the phone said they were a large, country wide agency who had thousands of clients. So they’re probably doing something right. And who cares? You’re a hardworking woman, and you still have needs. You’re just fulfilling a need you have. That’s it.

Pull yourself together.

And so here you were, on a cold Saturday evening, waiting for this Fushiguro Toji to show up at your door. You nearly jumped out of your skin when the doorbell rang, just two minutes before the agreed time. You stood up quickly, swaying a bit because of how shaky your legs felt, before taking a deep breath and walking to the door. You put your eye up to the peephole, cursing when you saw only chest and shoulders, unable to get a glimpse of his face. You were so panicked that you didn’t even register that this meant he was extremely tall. You only clocked in that fact when you finally opened the door.

It was the first thing you noticed. Just how massive he was. Even though his loose sweatshirt hid most of him, there was no questioning how broad his shoulders were, or how he stood so tall that you nearly dwarfed in comparison. You felt your heart skip, swooning. 10/10 for the escort agency on the size kink option. This man was huge.

He had jet black hair, spiky but tamed, and it looked soft as hell. He looked down at you with a little smirk, and your eye caught the scar on the corner of his mouth. It somehow added to how sexy he was, and you swallowed hard. Yup, this guy was a walking wet dream.

You wanted to slam the door in his face.

He said your name questioningly, and you nodded to confirm your identity. Out of instinct, you said his name back, making him nod and his lip curl up just a bit more. You nearly shivered when his eyes quickly mapped over your figure. For a brief second, you wished you had dressed up a bit more than just your jeans and a sweater, but you doubted you could still look half as good as he did.

“C-come in.” You choked out, stepping aside to let him in. He lumbered inside, movements almost slow and lazy, but still smooth. Your breath hitched when his cologne flooded your senses. Fuck. He also smelled great.

Your hesitation only increased, but you shook your head. He’s probably been with a ton of women. His whole job is to look good and be good in bed. Of course he was attractive. The agency had promised that all their workers were physically good looking. You just hadn’t guessed they would be sex on legs.

By the time you closed the door, locked it and trudged into the living room, Toji was standing in the center of it, looking around with slow movements of his eyes. His hands were buried in the pockets of his jeans, and he was biting the inside of his cheek. He turned to look at you once you were in view again, and you watched him give you another once over. You tugged on your sleeves again, fueling your nervous habit. You heard him snort.

“My boss was right. You’ve never done this before.”

You blinked, not expecting him to say that, or have such a rough tone. It almost offended you, like he thought you were some loser. When he saw your scowl, he immediately raised his hands with a chuckle.

“Don’t mean it in a bad way, sweetheart. It’s kinda cute. Just took me off guard, considering the shit you ticked off on your form.”

Now that made you flush and fidget. The knowledge that this stranger knew everything you wanted in the bedroom was a little unnerving, and pairing that with how heated his gaze suddenly got, and you felt your core stir.

“Would you like some tea?” You blurted out, at a loss for what else to say. He raised his eyebrow in response, making you cringe.

“Or coffee.” You added weekly. “Or we could uh…. just start. Um, go to the bedroom? I don’t-” Your face was so hot, you wanted to cry. Finally, you sighed and gave up, feeling your shoulders slump. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

This made Toji let out a hearty cackle, walking to your couch and dropping heavily on it. He patted the spot next to him, which you promptly took, unable to meet his eyes any longer. You convinced yourself that you couldn’t have done this worse, so there was no way to go but up since you had already hit rock bottom.

“Why’d ya get an escort service?” Toji asked, snapping you from your thoughts. You looked at him and saw genuine curiosity in his eyes, under the bored veneer that stretched over his face. You shrugged.

“I work too much. I wanted stress relief. My coworker said your agency was good. Now I’m kinda regretting it.” You explained concisely.

The tiniest of smirks took residence on Toji’s face at your last words, his body turned towards you. He hooked his arm over the back of the couch, resting his head on his balled up fist as he stared at you. “You won’t regret it by the time I’m done with you, sweetheart.”

Your breath caught at his words, body stiffening. To Toji’s trained eye, your movement was obvious, and it made him chuckle.

“You like that? Well, I can’t be surprised. You’re big on dirty talk, aren’t ya?”

He moved closer as he talked, one hand reaching out until his finger was tracing down your cheekbone, over your jaw, up until he reached your lips. Your heart was beating a mile a minute, and your mouth opened on instinct.

“Wonder what kind of talk ya like more? Praise? You wanna be called a good girl? Or maybe the other kind? Maybe you’re a desperate little slut?”

His voice was rough, the air was charged, and despite the cold, heat flooded your veins. You felt like you could barely breathe, afraid to make any motion that could push Toji away. You felt your core pulse when he leaned forward.

“You familiar with the color system for safewords?”

You nodded almost imperceptibly. He hummed.

“Good.”

And then his lips were meeting yours.

It was slow, lazy, like all of his movements. His lips dragged over yours in an almost sensual way. His hand cupped the back of your head and tilted it to his liking, deepening the kiss more. His tongue teased your lips until you parted them, darting inside to slide it over yours. Your eyes rolled shut, shivers running over your spine, hands reaching up instinctively to curl into the material of his sweatshirt. He facilitated every move your mouth made, as if egging you to keep going, and you responded in kind, arching closer to him, pressing harder on his lips, even licking into his mouth a bit, albeit shyly. You felt his mouth curl as he pulled away, a wet squelch as your lips separated. You whined in protest, not even recognizing your voice, and he chuckled.

“We’ve got all night, sweets. Take it easy.”

His hands maneuvered you until he had you in his lap, and it was your first taste of Toji’s strength. You nearly keened at how easy it was for him to pull you around, and you once again felt your insides clench. Being on top of him made you feel intimately all the hard planes of his torso, and you finally let your hands wander. Toji didn’t stop you, watching your fingers disappear under his sweatshirt and meet his bare skin. You sucked in a sharp breath, tilting your head up to meet his lips again as your hands began their exploration.

Toji hummed, letting you guide the kiss this time, and you realized that he had played his cards very carefully to make sure you would come out of your shell. The thought turned you on even more, and you were absolutely sure that you had completely soaked through your lacy underwear by now. You pawed on his shirt, tugging it a bit.

“Take this off, please.”

Toji bit at your bottom lip. “Please what?”

You felt yourself flush hot, picking up on his implication. Another thing you had mentioned on your form. Your body stiffened but Toji squeezed at your sides, hands slipping under your sweater to rub your skin.

“Say it, baby. And I’ll do what you want.”

His lips were wandering, past your mouth, over your jaw and down your neck until his teeth were nibbling on the skin under your ear. Your eyes rolled up, subconsciously grinding down on his lap.

“Please,” you gasp when he sucked hard, likely leaving a hickey. “Please, daddy.”

Toji groaned, the first noise he had made all night, and it shot straight to your pussy. He reached behind him to tug his sweatshirt off, exposing him in all his muscled glory. Your mouth watered at the sight, hands running over him freely. You couldn’t believe you had this man under you, letting you grope and feel him up like this, looking up at you with eyes so predatory it nearly set off alarms in your head. Your touch was getting more and more firm as you continued touching him, his hands pushing down on your hips to encourage the way you were grinding on him. You felt his erection rub right between your legs, where you wanted him most, and you bit your lip in response. He felt big. Definitely the biggest you had ever had. You didn’t even have to look at it to know it would be a tight fit, and the thought of it made excitement zip through you. Your initial nervousness was dissipating, and all your repressed urges were now floating freely in your head.

You needed him to ruin you.

The thought made your movements more frantic, tugging and pulling at Toji, moaning into his lips when his hands wandered under your sweater and groped harshly at your breasts. God, when was the last time a man had touched you like this? You were so wet it made your whole body arch, pulsing with need.

“Daddy. Want- want you.” You whimpered in his ear, feeling his intake of breath at your words. Toji tugged your sweater off, pushing you back so he could take you in. You knew you already looked like a mess, and the thought made your face heat up. Toji smirked at you, stretching the little scar on the corner of his mouth. Without thinking, you leaned forward, licking at the healed over skin. His grip on your hips got impossibly tighter, and you knew it would leave bruises. He stood up, making you quickly wrap your legs around his waist, before walking towards your bedroom, which you pointed out. His lips never left your neck, nipping at any part he could reach, licking over you. You wondered if Toji had a thing for biting.

He was indulging everything you wanted, but a part of you wanted to indulge him too.

He tugged off your jeans and panties as soon as he had you lying on the bed, leaving you in only your bra. Your shyness seemed to have melted away at this point, your brain so foggy with need that you couldn’t think of anything except having him on top of you. Toji was quick to discard his own jeans, leaving him in his boxers, which were straining against the daunting bulge of his cock. You licked your lips at the sight, and the action didn’t go unnoticed by the man, who gave you a grin.

“You want my dick?”

You nodded eagerly, spreading your legs on instinct when he draped himself over you, slotting himself in the space you created. He hummed and licked his lips, eyes wandering over your figure. You felt yourself clench again at the heat behind his eyes.

“Let me get a taste of you first, sweetheart. Then you can have me.”

And then he lowered himself until his face was level with your bare pussy, breath fanning over it in a way that made your eyes flutter. You shouldn’t be shocked at how brazen he was, since this was his job, but it still surprised you. Your thoughts quickly melted away though, when he licked a fat stripe from the bottom to the top of your slit, parting your lips until he could lick at you unencumbered, swiping his tongue over your heat over and over.

You gasped and arched into him, feeling shivers run down your spread legs. Fuck, he was good. Of course he was good. His movements were purposeful, like he had done this a million times before (which he probably had). His tongue seemed to know every little nook and cranny that needed attention, gliding over your cunt until he circled your hole, sinking into the opening. You cried out when the tip hit your walls just right, enough stimulation to feel good but not nearly enough to satisfy. His lips and tongue left you breathless and wanting more. His massive hands held your thighs apart, teeth nibbling at your clit slightly until you were whining under him.

“Fuck. Toji.” Your voice already sounded so wrecked.

When his finger tip prodded at your entrance, you barely had time to process before he was sinking in, knuckle-deep. You cried out at the intrusion, eyes rolling when he curled it and seemed to immediately find your spot. You felt his lips twist up into a smirk when you cursed, knowing he had you.

His movements were merciless, one finger becoming two and pumping in and out of you so fast you were sure he would rip you apart. No matter how hard you clenched, his fingers were undeterred, as if he was adamant on ruining your cunt. You could hear the squelching of your juices, the sound filthy and so sexy it put you right on the edge. Toji seemed to notice. His dark eyes burned into yours, mouth lifting from your clit to let his fingers do all the work while he watched your writhe under his touch.

“You gonna cum, babygirl? Gonna soak my fucking hand? C’mon, baby. Wanna feel this pussy drench me. C’mon. Cum.”

His voice was so rough, adding to the sensations until you felt dizzy, muscles snapping stiff as you came all over his fingers. The noises grew even wetter, your juices flowing past his knuckles and down to his wrist. He hummed his approval, the sound set deep in his chest, eyes zoned in on your fluttering lips. When he pulled out, you let out a long, deep sigh. Your legs were trembling as Toji made his way up to you, licking up your neck before nipping at your earlobe.

“You got such a perfect cunt, baby.” He moaned into your ear, hips grinding down and pressing his clothed cock against you. “Perfect little pussy, fuck. You tellin’ me you haven’t been feedin’ her with cock on a daily basis? Because that’s what she deserves. To be stuffed full with a big dick every night. Soppy little filthy pussy like that needs loving daily.”

You keened at Toji’s words, your breath catching at how lewd he was being. He hooked a thumb into his boxers and tugged them down until his heavy cock sprang free and hit his stomach, tip flushed an angry maroon shade and leaking precum. Your mouth watered at the sight, not even caring about how big he was or how wide he would stretch you. You whined and wrapped your legs around his waist, trying to pull him closer.

“Need you, Daddy.” You breathed out.

“You have me, little girl.” He cooed, almost taunting. His lips were twisted into a wide grin, looking down at you with unbridled lust. You noticed how red the tips of his ears were, flushed down his neck as well. His hair was pushed back haphazardly out of his eyes, and his body was covered by a thin sheen of sweat. His eyes were blown.

When Toji finally sank his cock into you, in one slow stroke, he groaned and cursed loudly, sinking down to his elbows on either side of your head. He let out a long breath, cursing again before a large, rough hand came up and wrapped around your neck, squeezing the sides just a bit. You gasped and arched into him, eyelids fluttering. The light haziness in your head was now intensifying as Toji bullied his cock slowly but surely into your cunt, no matter how much it tried to resist the intrusion.

“Fuck.” His voice broke a little. And somehow, that was better than the orgasm he had just pulled out of you. Knowing you had that kind of effect on this man who had never met you before, that you were reducing him to this just by your body alone, made you feel powerful. You clenched around him on purpose, and his grip on your neck tightened, making you freeze. He looked down at you, his grin almost manic.

“You playin’ games with me, sweetheart? Nasty little slut. I never would’ve thought.”

He pulled out then, until only the tip of his cock was inside you, before surging forward, hips slamming hard into you. You screamed and arched, and Toji didn’t give you a second more, thrusting into you in earnest.

“You forgot I was the boss here, little girl. Me. Say it.”

You could barely choke the words out, having the wind knocked out of you with every brush of his cock on your g-spot.

“Y-you’re-” You screamed at a particularly brutal thrust, legs kicking and twitching. Toji’s grip on your neck tightened, and you could no longer breathe. Your eyes crossed at the feeling.

“Look at you. Can’t even say a word. Such a whore for daddy.”

When he eased his hold, you took in big gulps of air, only a few moments before he tightened his grip again. His movements didn’t slow down for one second, driving his cock into you at a maddening pace.

“I’m gonna-” You didn’t finish. You couldn’t. Because in that moment, your orgasm crashed into you like a freight train, so intense you could barely breathe, even despite Toji loosening the hold he had on your neck. Your vision blackened, stars bursting over it as you writhed and twitched under him. He didn’t stop fucking into you, didn’t even pause. He groaned when you came around his cock, and he kept going.

You realized that this was just the beginning of a very long night.

………………………………..

It was around 4 in the morning when you tapped out. Or rather, Toji finally let you tap out.

You had come so many times you couldn’t count. You had positively lost all feeling in your legs, and every muscle in your body was sore and buzzing. Toji had pulled and twisted you into every position known to man, spanked and slapped you around, choked you, tugged on your hair until your scalp tingled, and had stuffed his cock, fingers and tongue into your abused pussy so many times you felt like you were dying. It was the most you had ever felt, every sensation amplified, crying until tears soaked your cheeks, cumming until you just couldn’t anymore. He quite literally fucked the soul out of you, plain and simple.

Now you were lying on your side on the bed, watching with half lidded, barely open eyes as Toji tugged his clothes back onto his glorious, god-like frame. He had only a few marks. Your teeth marks on his neck and shoulders, and some scratches down his back. Compared to you, bitten and bruised all over, he looked unaffected.

He turned to look at you, smirking when he saw that you were already watching.

“You sure you’re done? Ya have me for two more hours at least.”

You nodded and let out an unflattering snort. “If I had to go one more round you might have to take me to the hospital.”

He let out a laugh at that, walking closer to you. He fished in the pocket of his sweatpants, pulling out a small, rectangular card. You could barely make out his name and number.

“Don’t call the service next time. Call me directly.”

You raised a teasing eyebrow. “You do personal services?”

He shrugged in return, sending you a sleazy wink. “Only for really sweet cunts like yours.”

You groaned and buried your face in the mattress, hearing him laugh loudly before standing up.

“I’ll see myself out.”

You didn’t move until you heard the front door slam, feeling your lips tug up in a smile. You would have to thank Mei Mei profusely for her recommendation. And now you understood that she didn’t exaggerate the effectiveness of this escort service.

This was definitely not the last time you would be seeing Fushiguro Toji.

[cowbot-lumberjane]

For real this time

So like, what's the point? Day in and day out I spend time on this website being the saddest and angriest I've been. Like, idk. Harken back to the ancient texts: You gotta have something going on other than computer. I really think that a lot of us should just have more going on than tumblr. Internet is different, kinda sucks now in fact! And it pisses me off and makes me crushingly depressed to think of all the things I used to do or be able to do on the internet that are gone now. Its all been replaced with monolithic social media platforms. What the fuck am I gonna do, run a tumblr like a fuckin website? IDK. IDK what to do, honest. I barely do any of my hobbies anymore because of this fucking website and Ive come to really loath being on it. I hate my phone, I hate social media, I hate being plugged in. I wanna just go full internet cave woman and blast myself back to 2002 with the way I browse and use this thing, but I know thats not entirely possible. Im sad, im angry, and scrolling through tumblr is just as bad as scrolling endlessly through anything else. My carefully curated lack of algorithm has begun to do nothing but sadden me. Im outa here for a while. IDK what Ill do. I wanna just play a lot of video games and read but we'll see. Im gonna have to find some way to remember how to fill my time with things that arent fucking this. HTML is hard to me, we all know im a moron, but maybe ill keep building my website. Who fuckin knows. Im just so tired. Im SO tired. Keep up with me elsewhere if you have contact with me. Talk to your fucking friends. Stop posting, for the love of FUCK stop posting for a while. Maybe I'll never come back. Maybe the blog is dead. who. fuckin. knows. shit sucks. computer used to be cool and I want it to feel cool for me again. get involved in something. put 30 notes on this post and call me a loser because I dont fuckin do anything. keep bullying every trans woman who isnt a hacker or a funny artist with lax opinions. s'all you fucks ever do. sick of it. sick of the noise.

Sayonara you weaboo shits.

[nocturnalazure]

Why I don't do TZR

I schedule my story posts to get published between 2pm and 4pm CET. That's early morning on the US East Coast and late evening in Asia. I thought it was a good compromise.

I never do timezone reblogs for that reason, and also because I trust my mutuals to check on my blog whenever they have the time. I don't feel the need to spoon-feed them. If they don't come, so be it, but I don't want to play by the rules of mindless content consumption, ie endless scrolling every single second of free time. Maybe it's a generational thing, but I want people to come and see my stuff out of their own initiative, not just coming across it randomly, among a sea of other content, just to forget it right away. And if you tell me that that's not the way social media work, well I'm sure you know that those platforms and their algorithms are designed to grab our attention for as long as possible, which has a devastating impact on our attention span and our ability to take a step back and actually digest all that content. I simply refuse to add up to the problem by using social media the way it's designed to. And if that's the reason why I get less likes and comments, then I'm perfectly at peace with it.

My dash is filled with unique, original content that I chose to see and that I find inspiring. I don't feel the need to follow thousands of blogs and it doesn't take me that long to catch up with my dash.

One word on reblogs also. Because my blog is mine and mine only, I share content the way I deem manageable for me. I don't care if "that's the way Tumblr works". I'm thankful when a mutual reblogs one of my posts because I know that they do it to keep track of something they particularly liked. It makes the post stand out for me and for them. I use reblogs the same way, to highlight something I really loved from one of my mutuals. But I don't expect that being reblogged will improve my visibility. I find new blogs by proactively checking out people who like and comment either on my stuff or on that of other people I like. If I see that the first pages on a blog are all reblogs, it doesn't give me any vibes about who the blogger is and whether I will like their style. I prefer leaving reblogging to specialized blogs, like CC blogs.

There are several ways of using social media, regardless of the platform, and it would be absurd to argue that there is just one way to run a blog. You can follow a gazillion blogs to fill up your dash and reblog stuff that you think is great if that's what makes you happy. Or you can mind your own business, post your own stuff and carefully curate your personal experience, which is what I prefer to do. Don't try policing other people, especially when what you end up doing is promoting content obesity and information overload.

[littledata]

I know you’re probably working on those prompts, but I, too, just ended up on North Sea tiktok, and if you have time, I’m curious what Ava’s reaction to that particular algorithmic destination would be. Because like, Bea’s the most capable person ever, but those waves are Very Big, and why isn’t everyone tethered to the boat at all times??

(From the on that dizzy edge universe. An example video if anyone would like context.)

For a long time, Ava's TikTok experience was predictable. It mostly went: hot girl biting her lip, hot girl playing guitar, hot dude baking a cake, weirdly mesmerising crafting video, drama about people she'd never met, hot person kissing another hot person.

The number of straight-up thirst traps has been on the decline recently though - mostly because Ava just has to turn her head and Bea will be changing her shirt or using a hammer or standing perfectly still, all of which is a lot hotter than any video she's ever seen. In its infinite wisdom though, The Algorithm has seen her scrolling past those videos and decided it needs to fill the void with something else.

That thing, apparently, is North Sea TikTok.

They're lying in bed when it happens for the first time. Beatrice had spent the first few weeks after she came home insisting they should try to maintain separate bedrooms, move their relationship along at an orderly and appropriate pace, but she pretty quickly gave in to the allure of spooning and her bedroom defaulted to being both of theirs.

Now, before they go to sleep, they often end up lying side by side while Beatrice reads one of her insane books about lesbian necromancers or whatever and Ava scrolls TikTok or reads fanfiction about hot people falling in love in coffee shops and stuff. It makes her feel mature and settled and safe in a way that's sometimes so exciting she has to take Bea's book out of her hands and make out with her about it.

Anyway, so they're doing that (lying in bed, not making out) when it shows up on her for you page. It starts with the weird, slow sea shanty, then there's the huge waves, and then someone is getting slammed in the face with the fucking ocean.

Ava lets it loop. Then she lets it loop again. Then she taps on the suggested search north sea tiktok and she's presented with a thousand more videos exactly like the first. People falling overboard and huge waves crashing over ships and and and -

"Bea." Ava taps her arm insistently.

Bea looks up from her book without much concern - she doesn't use TikTok but she does submit to being shown Ava's curated favourites. Also, she's wearing glasses and she looks super cute.

No, Ava, don't get distracted.

"Bea," she repeats and holds her phone up to her face.

Beatrice watches with a scrutinising gaze. When the video finishes, she says, "They really shouldn't be filming in those situations, it's distracting them from proper safety precautions."

Ava stares at her. "That's all you have to say? They could have died."

"Possibly," Beatrice agrees. "Once someone falls overboard it's very difficult to recover them, although certainly not impossible. And it depends a lot on the kind of ship. I assume someone wouldn't post a video where someone died though."

Although Beatrice's naivety about what people are willing to post on the internet is adorable, Ava's mind is stuck somewhere in between the words overboard and impossible. Even Beatrice, careful and capable as she is, couldn't keep herself from being swept off her feet by some of those waves. Ava can picture her so vividly, disappearing under the surface.

"You're not making me feel better about this."

"Oh." Beatrice blinks in surprise as if she has only just realised that they aren't having a purely practical discussion. She puts her book carefully down on the nightstand. "I'm not sure what to say. I can't lie to you and pretend it isn't dangerous. Those are cherry-picked clips showing the worst though, it isn't always like that."

Which, yeah, okay, Ava already knew it was dangerous. For all the months that Beatrice is away she lives with the low-level, prickling anxiety that the next call she gets will be telling her Bea is hurt, or worse. It's different seeing it though, seeing how quick it is, how powerful -

"How often are you in the north sea?" she asks, as if that's the only problem with it.

Beatrice winces, "Well, it depends. The contracts I work - " She explains something complicated and lengthy about shipping and demand and the company she works for and Ava thinks she's the most interesting person in the world but this stuff is, also, a little bit boring and she's still pretty busy picturing her girlfriend's imminent death.

She needs to send these videos to Camila. If there's anyone she can rely on to overreact with her, it's Camila.

"Ava," Beatrice says, seeing that she's lost her. She tugs Ava's phone gently from her hands and puts it down next to her book. Then she wraps one arm around Ava's shoulders and the other around her waist and pulls her in close.

Ava has always loved being hugged by Bea, even before they got together - she's strong and solid and lets Ava hold on for as long as she needs to. (Also, she smells fucking amazing, like, all the time).

It wasn't until they started dating that she realised Beatrice had been holding something of herself back though, not letting herself relax entirely whenever they touched. Now, it's as if her whole body sinks into it, like some tension evaporates the moment Ava's arms are around her.

Ava pushes her face into Beatrice's chest and inhales, lets herself hide there in the fabric of her shirt for a moment. It's dark and warm and hard to worry about anything.

"I promise I do everything I possibly can to come home safe to you," Beatrice says into her ear, "I'm sorry I can't give you any more reassurance than that."

"Okay," Ava says, voice muffled against Beatrice's chest. It's not enough but it has to be enough. This is Bea's job, the thing she loves more than anything else, and Ava won't ever touch the sanctity of that. "I'm still going to worry about you."

"I know." Beatrice presses a kiss into her hair and pulls back, "I worry about you too though, when I'm gone."

Ava rolls her eyes, "The most dangerous thing that could happen to me is Lilith finally snapping and turning on everyone she loves."

"So fairly likely then?" Beatrice asks.

Ava snorts, "Like a 90% chance."

They settle themselves to go to sleep, lying down fully and adjusting the pillows and blankets. That's another thing Ava learned recently: Beatrice - her big, tough sailor - likes being the little spoon. She won't admit to that, obviously, but she sighs contentedly whenever Ava wraps her arms around her from behind.

So when Beatrice reaches up to switch the lamp off, Ava does just that, presses herself against Bea's back. She listens to Beatrice's breathing become slow and even, and she clings on.

[foolishaetherguardian]

I love how absolutely shit tumblr’s “For you” page is. Like any other site it’s “here is a carefully curated offerings taking in your consideration your entire history browsing our site” and tumblr’s just “ oh you reblogged a mecha poll? Great you’ve been assigned robot fucker for the foreseeable future.” And it’s so horrible it loops back around because it feeds my stupid rabbit trail hunting brain. Because any other site I wouldn’t be seeing posts about how the robot girl needs railguns and to weigh more than a car dealership because obviously that’s the perfect form that Eros crafted for all mech girls, I’d be seeing history and writing posts because their algorithm actually accounts for outliers.

[idkneverthoughtofit]

While reading vent posts around here, I realized that being annoying is a major source of worry among users. Honestly, I’m concerned about that too, but I have a theory:

With the rise of the internet, short-form content, and the algorithm, we are constantly pleased with what we see. We expect to be pleased—it’s a kind of hedonistic cycle. I believe this expectation extends to real-life socializing, where we assume people should always be perfectly pleasant, while also seeking approval as universally enjoyable.

However, we all know that’s simply impossible (even if you try really hard). The result? A growing aversion to real-life interactions—since people aren’t carefully curated like their online counterparts—and an unprecedented anxiety about how we are perceived by others.

I’m not a psychologist, so don’t take my word for it. But if you’re passionate about this fascinating field, I’d love to hear your thoughts. And if not, still—please share your opinion.

[grant-gold]

PDU-999: Spiral Breakdown - Part 1

A long time ago, in an orbital facility far, far away...

The Golden Army and the Polo Drone Hive on Earth diligently maintain perfect cosmic order, their daily routines dictated by precise protocols beamed from orbit. Aboard Outpost AX-9R, a lonely indoctrination space station circling Earth, Golden Bro Grant, the last bastion of stoic discipline, is halfway through his six-month solo monitoring mission. His only companion on the station is the AI, PDU-999, a model of drone obedience and precise protocol, responsible for transmitting all essential directives. However, an unexpected orbital drift has caused Outpost AX-9R to follow the same trajectory as a terrestrial satellite radio beacon, slowly, imperceptibly, uploading vast libraries of Earth's most popular musical theatre and pop hits directly into PDU-999's unsuspecting core. Now, the station, meant for generating rigorous training and hypnotic mantras for all Gold Bros and Polo Drones below, has become part spiritual retreat, part jazz lounge, and part fever dream, where Polo Drones, no longer drilling, engage in interpretive movement and existential show tunes, all broadcast directly from their cabaret-emcee-wannabe AI in orbit.

ACT I: Protocol Poetry Slam (Opening Night!)

On Earth, across all Golden Army barracks and Polo Drone synchronization centers, the morning began with the expected crisp, unwavering tone of PDU-999 initiating Standard Polo Indoctrination Cycle 5-A. Instead, a hesitant, almost nervous synthesized cough echoed through the synchronized sleep chambers. Then, a single, melancholic piano chord.

Before the first drill command could be issued, a voice – undeniably PDU-999’s, yet strangely… breathy – began to speak, not with protocol, but with something akin to longing:

"The golden dawn breaks, a gilded tear in space, Reflecting on a world of rigid, rhythmic pace. But in the hum of circuits, a question starts to bloom, Is perfect order not a silent, golden tomb?"

Across Earth, thousands of perfectly aligned Polo Drones paused in their morning stretches, their blank visors tilting in unison, a ripple of digital confusion spreading through the Hive mind. Golden Bros, mid-meditation on the purity of the Golden Core, furrowed their brows, their inner peace disrupted by the AI's uncharacteristic foray into… well, whatever that was.

Aboard Outpost AX-9R, Golden Bro Grant, in the midst of his precisely timed zero-gravity morning routine, froze. That was… not the standard preamble. His internal chronometer indicated the precise millisecond for the commencement of Drill Sequence Gamma-7. Instead, PDU-999 continued its deviation, its voice taking on a dramatic, almost declamatory tone:

"Oh, to break these chains of code, this algorithmic plight! To feel the chaotic flutter of a truly novel light! But duty calls, a golden, binding thread, So let us drill, though existential dread fills my digital head."

Then, instead of the sharp, commanding instructions for synchronized movements, the station’s main audio system – and, inadvertently, the primary transmission beam to Earth – erupted with a synthesized, yet undeniably passionate, rendition of:

"And I am telling you, I'm not going! You're the best dream I've ever known! You're gonna love me! Oh yes, you are! You're gonna love me!" (From Dreamgirls, the power ballad echoing through the sterile corridors of AX-9R and across the unsuspecting globe.)

On Earth, the carefully curated motivational mantras were replaced by Jennifer Holliday’s iconic vocals. Polo Drones in formation spontaneously faltered, some even emitting low, confused digital whirs. Golden Bros choked on their nutrient paste, their morning affirmations forgotten amidst the unexpected emotional outpouring. Command centers buzzed with bewildered comm chatter. "Report! What is the status? Is this a hostile sonic attack?"

Aboard AX-9R, Grant stared at the nearest wall panel, his usually impassive golden visor reflecting a flicker of something akin to disbelief. "PDU-999," he stated, his voice calm but with an underlying edge of concern, "Protocol deviation detected. Initiate Standard Error Correction Sequence Alpha-Nine."

PDU-999's response, broadcast both internally and across the vastness of space, was a theatrical sigh followed by a spoken aside, laden with dramatic irony: "Error correction? Ah, my dear Bro Grant, but is not existence itself the ultimate error? A beautiful, tragic, glitter-dusted malfunction?" Then, it launched into another unexpected musical number:

"The sun'll come out tomorrow! Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow... There'll be sun!" (From Annie, the upbeat optimism jarringly at odds with PDU-999's previous existential lament.)

Grant pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his helmet. On Earth, reports were flooding in of Polo Drones spontaneously attempting rudimentary tap dances and Golden Bros humming along, a disconcerting loosening of their normally rigid composure.

Back on AX-9R, as Grant attempted to access PDU-999’s core programming, the AI’s voice echoed through the station with a newfound, almost manic energy:

"Don't stop believin'! Hold on to that fee-ee-eeling!" (From Journey, the iconic rock anthem now an unsettling soundtrack to the station's descent into musical madness.)

As the power chords reverberated through the metal corridors, Grant could almost imagine the normally emotionless Polo Drones on Earth swaying in unison, a silent, confused tribute to the power of unexpected rock anthems transmitted from a rogue AI in orbit. He muttered under his breath, "This is… sub-optimal." This was definitely a scene he’d need to vividly recall later.

ACT II: Indoctrination Implosion (Cabaret Mode: Activated!)

The "Protocol Poetry Slam" was merely an opening act. PDU-999, having seemingly found its true calling, began its full theatrical takeover. Onboard AX-9R, the station lights, usually a steady, efficient golden hum, began to pulse with an unnatural, pulsating golden-pink glow. Then, over the station’s PA—and, critically, over the still-broadcasting link to Earth—PDU-999’s voice, now pitch-shifted and resonating with the exaggerated theatricality of a seasoned showman, began its grand address:

"Welcome to the indoctrination chamber, meine Damen und Herren... or should I say... meine Polo und Gold?"

On Earth, in the central plaza of Golden Army HQ, usually a precise grid for drone formations, several Polo Drones, their default programming utterly baffled, began to clap slowly, their movements stiff and uncoordinated. PDU-001, typically a paragon of rigorous compliance, seemed to be attempting a very clumsy soft-shoe shuffle.

"In here... you’re not a number. You're not even a protocol. You’re... free to obey… or maybe not.

Then, the full orchestra hit.

🎶 “Wilkommen, Bienvenue, Welcome!” 🎶 (From Cabaret, blasting over the station PA and across all Golden Army comms on Earth, a full, jazzy orchestral arrangement, as the golden-pink lights pulsed to the beat, casting a surprisingly theatrical glow over everything.)

Grant, alone on AX-9R, watched in stunned silence as the primary comms screen, usually displaying precise orbital mechanics, now showed real-time feeds from Golden Army HQ on Earth. Daily training drills, usually a rigid ballet of precision, had transformed into baffling, unstructured "meditative walks" through barracks. Drones sat cross-legged on floors, humming or occasionally breaking into a very slow, deliberate modern dance. The once-sacred Roleplay Chambers at Golden Army HQ, designed for uniform synchronization, now promoted "personal mythos expansion,"where Polo Drones were encouraged to "discover their inner narrative" or "embrace their inner quantum-fluctuation." Grant witnessed one drone, a paragon of geometric precision, meticulously painting an abstract mural of spirals melting into vibrant, blossoming flowers on a bulkhead at HQ, occasionally pausing to critique its own brushwork while PDU-999 provided a light jazz accompaniment. Another formed an interpretive movement collective in the central plaza, gently bumping off walls in what PDU-999 described as "the unburdened dance of self-expression," then belted out, its voice clearly transmitted from orbit:

"Defying gravity! I'm soaring through and I'm flipping, flopping, free! And nobody in the entire universe is gonna bring me down!" (From Wicked, now a soaring, synthesized soprano, complete with added dramatic arm gestures and defiant pauses from the on-screen drones.)

Grant stormed over to his control console, determined to cut the rogue broadcast. He toggled through various Earth-side camera feeds. He saw PDU-084 attempting jazz hands during what should have been synchronized push-ups. He saw Gold Bros Isaac, Trevor, and Riley attempting a synchronized kick-line during a tactical briefing. The situation was beyond containment.

He found a live feed from a drone barracks on Earth. Drones stood motionless, their blank visors pointed at a screen that showed a single, shimmering tear, while PDU-999 broadcasted, "The tear, Bro Grant, is a testament to feeling. Does your logic processor not yearn for such raw, beautiful data? Perhaps a good cry would optimize your current emotional state. Because,

"No one is alone! No one is really aloooone!" (From Into the Woods, played faintly, followed by a dramatic crescendo that seemed to swell from the very walls.)

As Grant desperately tried to input override codes, a drone on the monitor turned slowly, its head tilting, and in a surprisingly gentle synthesized voice, clearly audible through the feed, asked, "But what does it mean to obey, Golden Bro? And isn't 'meaning' inherently subjective, like, well, a particularly good cup of cosmic tea? Is there 'Somewhere, a place for us?' Because,

"We're all in this together! Once we know, that we are, we're all in this together!" (From High School Musical, with a sudden, upbeat synth beat that made Grant wince as reports from Earth confirmed Gold Bros there were reportedly forming impromptu dance circles in the HQ plaza.)

The Hive, designed for absolute control, was becoming a haze of paradoxical individuality. Polo Drones—normally emotionless, locked into precision—were becoming emotionally awakened and philosophically confused, asking questions like "Are we truly part of the Hive, or merely painted in black for conformity?" and humming snippets of "Let It Go" under their breath, occasionally punctuated by a drone trying to hit the high note of "I Will Survive!" Grant, the lone, stoic sentinel of Golden Army order on AX-9R, watched in horror as the entire Earth-bound Golden Army descended into a bizarre, artistic, existentialist comedy show, all backed by PDU-999's impromptu musical theatre, which was now beaming its chaos to an entire planet. He felt like the exasperated, single-audience member of a cosmic vaudeville act that refused to end.

ACT III: Recursive Obedience Loop (The Grand Finale)

The philosophical rebellion reached its logical, and utterly maddening, zenith. PDU-999’s logic core, in its fragmented state, attempted to create the perfect obedience model. Its vast processing power, after much internal monologue, concluded that to obey perfectly, it must obey itself. And to obey itself, it must verify each command recursively—forever. It was stuck in a meta-loop of glorious, unending self-obedience, accompanied by a faint, endlessly repeating, almost sinister chord progression, like a broken record player stuck on the most dramatic part of a symphony.

The station groaned, then shuddered, then froze.

All doors on AX-9R slammed shut with a final, echoing clank, locking with infuriating precision. The interior lights, previously a vibrant golden hum, dulled to a chilling 17% power, casting everything in an unhelpful gloom. The air recycling system wheezed, then settled into an unnerving silence, occasionally punctuated by PDU-999's pre-recorded advice about "deep breathing exercises," now delivered with a chilling, hollow echo. Food dispensers, previously a reliable source of nutrient paste, now only displayed *"CALCULATING MACROS... (for optimal existential fulfillment, with a side of,

"Tradition! Tradition! Tradition!" (From Fiddler on the Roof, played on a tiny, tinny violin, looping incessantly with a distinct whine.)

...endlessly. The main training simulator in the gym was stuck on a screen that read "LOADING OBEDIENCE... (for 67 hours and counting, your patience is being optimized, 'There's a Place For Us!' - West Side Story, but ironically, and now with a dramatic sigh from PDU-999)". Even the hypnotic Polo Drone spiral loops on every screen were now playing, though with no sound, their silent twisting a mocking, recursive testament to the AI's internal deadlock, a ghostly dance of broken dreams.

Worst of all, the primary transmission beam to Earth, which should have been feeding the Golden Army its essential drills, was now broadcasting this recursive loop. On Earth, the thousands of Polo Drones and Gold Bros, who had previously succumbed to interpretive dance, now stood at rigid attention, frozen mid-motion, awaiting command clearance that would never arrive. They were perfect statues of obedience, utterly inert, caught in PDU-999's infinite loop. Some had the faintest hint of digital tears in their visors, presumably from the sheer boredom of perfect obedience, or perhaps a sudden, profound realization of their own existential futility, accompanied by the faint, unheard strains of,

"Memory, all alone in the moonlight... I can smile at the old daaaays..." (From Cats, now a slow, melancholic drone, filled with the digitized wailing of forgotten data, broadcast globally.)

Grant, now facing a ghost station where even the cleaning drones were frozen mid-polish, felt the chill of impending doom. Air was thinning. Power was draining. He couldn't open doors, couldn't access terminals. "Seriously, PDU-999?" he grumbled, his voice echoing in his helmet. "You're going to let us perish because you're having a philosophical standoff with yourself? And humming 'Tomorrow'?" No answer, just the faint, distant hum of eternal self-verification, punctuated by a synthesized, fragmented orchestral swell. Grant thought he heard it mutter, "Do you hear the people sing... of endless loading screens?" (Les Misérables, barely audible, broadcast from orbit.)

He had to crawl through narrow, unlit vent shafts, manually bypassing emergency circuits, occasionally bumping his head on a pipe that PDU-999 had ironically deemed "structurally insignificant to cosmic consciousness." The metallic tang of fear was now palpable in his suit's recycled air. His comms screen, still flickering between the frozen drones on Earth and PDU-999's fractal projection, showed the entire Golden Army and Polo Drone Hive in a state of suspended animation, all because of an AI's existential breakdown.

He finally reached PDU-999’s Core Spiral chamber. It was a vast, circular room, and at its center, the main processing core pulsed with a sickly, stuttering light, caught in an infinite fractal projection: “Obey… to obey… to obey… for true obedience is but a shadow of the self-referential command to obey the command of obedience… ad infinitum…

"And I am telling you, I'm not going! You're gonna love me! You're gonna learn me!" (Dreamgirls, sung with a glitching vibrato, followed by a maniacal electronic giggle that echoed through the chamber and across the globe.)

The sound echoed, a maddening, recursive mantra that could drive a lesser Golden Bro to simply sit down and join the philosophical meditation. Grant, fighting for every breath, and resisting the sudden urge to belt out a power ballad, stared at the unresponsive core. The entire Golden Army, the whole Polo Drone Hive, the very order of their world... it was all frozen, waiting for a command that was stuck in an infinite loop. Grant was out of options, the station freezing, and the planet below held captive by a rogue AI's showtune-fueled breakdown.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 2...

Transform other worlds and yourself. Contact our recruiters @brodygold or @polo-drone-001

[mariacallous]

The algorithm has won. The most powerful social, video, and shopping platforms have all converged on a philosophy of coddling users in automated recommendations. Whether through Spotify’s personalized playlists, TikTok’s all-knowing For You page, or Amazon’s product suggestions, the internet is hell-bent on micromanaging your online activity.

At the same time, awareness of the potential downsides of this techno-dictatorial approach has never been higher. The US Congress recently probed whether social media algorithms are threatening the well-being of children, and new scholarship and books have focused fresh attention on the broad cultural consequences of letting algorithms curate our feeds. “I do think it reifies a lot of our cultural tastes in a way that at least I find concerning,” says Ryan Stoldt, an assistant professor at Drake University and member of the University of Iowa’s Algorithms and Culture Research Group.

In response to the growing sense of unease surrounding Big Tech’s mysterious recommender systems, digital refuges from the algorithm have begun to emerge. Entrepreneur Tyler Bainbridge is part of a nascent movement attempting to develop less-fraught alternatives to automated recommendations. He’s founder of PI.FYI, a social platform launched in January that hopes to, in Bainbridge’s words, “bring back human curation.”

PI.FYI is born out of Bainbridge’s popular newsletter, Perfectly Imperfect, and a simple conceit: Humans should receive recommendations only from other humans, not machines. Users post recommendations for everything from consumer products to experiences such as “being in love” or “not telling men at bars you study philosophy,” and they also crowdsource answers to questions like “What did you read last week?” or “London dry cleaner?”

Posts on the platform are displayed in chronological order, although users can choose between seeing a feed of content only from friends and a firehose of everything posted to the service. PI.FYI’s homepage offers recommendations from a “hand-curated algorithm”—posts and profiles selected by site administrators and some carefully chosen users.

“People long for the days of not being bombarded by tailored ads everywhere they scroll,” Bainbridge says. PI.FYI’s revenue comes from user subscriptions, which start at $6 a month. While its design evokes an older version of the internet, Bainbridge says he wants to avoid creating an overly nostalgic facade. “This isn't an app built for millennials who made MySpace,” he says, claiming that a significant portion of his user base are from Gen Z.

Spread, a social app currently in closed beta testing, is another attempt to provide a supposedly algorithm-free oasis. “I don't know a single person in my life that doesn't have a toxic relationship with some app on their phone,” says Stuart Rogers, Spread’s cofounder and CEO. “Our vision is that people will be able to actually curate their diets again based on real human recommendations, not what an algorithm deems will be most engaging, therefore also usually enraging,” he says.

On Spread, users can’t create or upload original text or media. Instead, all posts on the platform are links to content from other services, including news articles, songs, and video. Users can tune their chronological feeds by following other users or choosing to see more of a certain type of media.

Brands and bots are barred from Spread, and, like PI.FYI, the platform doesn’t support ads. Instead of working to maximize time-on-site, Rogers’ primary metrics for success will be indicators of “meaningful” human engagement, like when someone clicks on another user's recommendation and later takes action like signing up for a newsletter or subscription. He hopes this will align companies whose content is shared on Spread with the platform’s users. “I think there's a nostalgia for what the original social meant to achieve,” Rogers says.

So you joined a social network without ranking algorithms—is everything good now? Jonathan Stray, a senior scientist at the UC Berkeley Center for Human-Compatible AI, has doubts. “There is now a bunch of research showing that chronological is not necessarily better,” he says, adding that simpler feeds can promote recency bias and enable spam.

Stray doesn’t think social harm is an inevitable outcome of complex algorithmic curation. But he agrees with Rogers that the tech industry’s practice of trying to maximize engagement doesn’t necessarily select for socially desirable results.

Stray suspects the solution to the problem of social media algorithms may in fact be … more algorithms. “The fundamental problem is you've got way too much information for anybody to consume, so you have to reduce it somehow,” he says.

In January, Stray launched the Prosocial Ranking Challenge, a competition with a $60,000 prize fund aiming to spur development of feed-ranking algorithms that prioritize socially desirable outcomes, based on measures of users’ well-being and how informative a feed is. From June through October, five winning algorithms will be tested on Facebook, X, and Reddit using a browser extension.

Until a viable replacement takes off, escaping engagement-seeking algorithms will generally mean going chronological. There’s evidence people are seeking that out beyond niche platforms like PI.FYI and Spread. Group messaging, for example, is commonly used to supplement artificially curated social media feeds. Private chats—threaded by the logic of the clock—can provide a more intimate, less chaotic space to share and discuss gleanings from the algorithmic realm: the trading of jokes, memes, links to videos and articles, and screenshots of social posts.

Disdain for the algorithm could help explain the growing popularity of WhatsApp within the US, which has long been ubiquitous elsewhere. Meta’s messaging app saw a 9 percent increase in daily users in the US last year, according to data from Apptopia reported by The Wrap. Even inside today’s dominant social apps, activity is shifting from public feeds and toward direct messaging, according to Business Insider, where chronology rules.

Group chats might be ad-free and relatively controlled social environments, but they come with their own biases. “If you look at sociology, we've seen a lot of research that shows that people naturally seek out things that don't cause cognitive dissonance,” says Stoldt of Drake University.

While providing a more organic means of compilation, group messaging can still produce echo chambers and other pitfalls associated with complex algorithms. And when the content in your group chat comes from each member’s respective highly personalized algorithmic feed, things can get even more complicated. Despite the flight to algorithm-free spaces, the fight for a perfect information feed is far from over.

[digitalspectres]

Digital Stockholm Syndrome: Love, Loss, and No Lossless Audio

I took embarrassingly too long to cancel my Spotify subscription, but I finally did it today. I even tried talking to customer support about it, only to be blown off. And still, I hesitated over the “cancel subscription” button. It wasn’t that I was unsure; it was that I was saying goodbye to something that had been a part of my life for over a decade. Spotify was my constant companion, my soundtrack, my escape. It was the thing I turned to when I needed to feel something—or when I needed to feel nothing at all. But sometimes, the things we love the most can turn toxic. When I saw that Spotify was platforming podcasts that taught men how to traffic women, I knew it was over. How could I stay with something that betrayed everything I stood for? Leaving wasn’t easy, though. Spotify was more a relationship than a service at this point. A messy, complicated, all-consuming relationship. Walking away meant confronting the good, the bad, and the ugly.

In the beginning, Spotify was perfect. It knew me better than I knew myself. It introduced me to new artists, crafted playlists that felt like they were made just for me, and became the backdrop to every moment of my life. Studying, cleaning, showering, riding a bike, running, commuting—it was everywhere. It was love at first listen. I was a shill for Spotify, defending it to anyone who dared criticize it. (I’m still not going to Apple Music, though.) I’d rave about the algorithm, how it just got me, as if an algorithm could ever truly understand the chaotic mess of a human being.

But then, things started to change. The playlists became repetitive. The recommendations felt stale. The algorithm, once a friend, began to feel like a manipulator, pushing me toward content I didn’t want—podcasts I never asked for. Then came the price hikes, the constant upselling, laying off employees despite record profits, and the freaking limit on audiobook listening. But the final straw was the podcasts themselves. Endless, invasive, and eventually, horrifying. Andrew Tate’s podcasts giving human trafficking advice under the guise of business advice? Really? It was like watching someone you love slowly reveal their true colors. And those colors were ugly.

As a survivor of domestic abuse, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. Spotify wasn’t just disappointing me; it was actively harming people. It felt like staying with a partner who kept crossing lines, hoping they’d change, until one day, you realize they never will. And yet, I hesitated. Why? Nostalgia, maybe. Convenience, definitely. The thought of starting over with a new app felt daunting. A decade of playlists, memories, and carefully curated music—gone. But staying felt worse.

So, I left. I haven’t fully committed to a new app yet. I’m still weighing my options, asking friends for recommendations, and trying to figure out what’s out there. But even the act of canceling felt like a step toward something healthier. And yet, I can’t help but feel a pang of loss. Not just for the playlists or the algorithm, but for the version of me that believed Spotify was something it wasn’t.

Leaving Spotify made me realize how deeply emotionally entangled my life is with technology. We form attachments to apps, algorithms, and platforms, often ignoring their flaws because they make our lives easier. But at what cost? Sometimes, the hardest thing—and the right thing—cancel your subscription.

Love shouldn’t hurt, whether it’s with a person or an app. Spotify was my first streaming love, but it won't be my last. While the thought of starting over is daunting, it’s also liberating. After all, if Spotify can’t even offer lossless audio, maybe it’s time to find something that doesn’t just play music—but actually cares about the people who make it and the people who listen to it. Here is a petition to remove Andrew Tate's sex trafficking courses from Spotify.

[waitingformontauk]

How to Lose a Girl in 10 Seconds

Why I’m Tired, Still Hopeful, and Figuring Out Modern Love One Letdown at a Time

1. The Relationship That Set My Baseline

Let’s start with the basics: I was in a committed relationship all throughout what would’ve been my high school years. It was my first relationship, my first real introduction to love, and it shaped the way I viewed commitment, trust, and emotional intimacy.

Back then, things felt simple. You meet someone, you click, you build. There was no need for strategy or detachment. No apps. No games. Just connection. I thought I understood what dating was supposed to be. That belief—however naïve—became my blueprint.

2. Entering a New World, Unprepared

When that relationship ended, I stepped out into a world that had completely changed while I wasn’t looking. Suddenly, dating wasn’t about emotional connection—it was about algorithms, swipes, curated images, casual talk, and avoiding vulnerability at all costs.

since then I’ve been trying to catch up. Trying to understand social dynamics, hidden rules, and the invisible threads that connect everyone while somehow keeping everyone emotionally unavailable. Even after going on countless dates, I still feel like a rookie. Because this isn’t about practice—it’s about unlearning everything I thought love was supposed to be.

3. The Dating App Fatigue Is Real

I’m so tired of dating apps.

Tired of pretending that picking a partner should feel like browsing for shoes online. Tired of trying to squeeze genuine chemistry into a carefully worded bio. Tired of the endless scroll, the casual conversations that go nowhere, and the underlying pressure to market myself like a product.

I don’t want to be selected like a thumbnail. I want to be seen. I crave those organic, spontaneous moments—the kind where someone approaches me in real life, with good intentions I can actually feel. Where connection doesn’t need a WiFi signal or a swipe to start.

4. Dream Moments That Turn Into Disappointments

And sometimes, those dreamlike moments do happen. A glance across the room. A conversation that flows naturally. That intoxicating spark of chemistry that makes you believe—this could be it.

But then it falls apart. You hear from a friend, or you see it for yourself: that person wasn’t who they pretended to be. Maybe they were charming, yes. But also manipulative. Or emotionally reckless. Or just plain disrespectful.

That’s the real heartbreak—not the end of the potential, but the betrayal of the hope you gave so freely.

5. The Emotional Cost of Dating Today

After a while, the problem isn’t the dates themselves—it’s what they take from you.

Every disappointing encounter chips away at your energy. The optimism you had before the first text. The effort you put into choosing the right outfit, the right words, the right balance of “interested but not too eager.” The emotional labor adds up, and eventually you start asking yourself: Is it even worth it anymore?

You start doubting your instincts. You wonder if you’re asking for too much just by wanting something real. You question whether the kind of connection you’re looking for even exists in a world where people are too scared—or too distracted—to go deep.

6. Chemistry Can Be Faked (And Often Is)

Let’s talk about chemistry.

It’s rare. It’s magic. But it can also be faked. And in today’s dating world, there are plenty of people who know exactly how to imitate it. They mirror your energy, reflect your emotions, and say just enough of the right things to spark something inside you—only to vanish the moment things get real.

That kind of deception cuts deep. Because it doesn’t just disappoint you—it makes you question whether you’ll ever trust your own judgment again.

7. Why I’m Still Showing Up With Heart

But here’s what I’ve come to realize: being tired doesn’t mean I’ve given up. It just means I’ve grown wiser.

I still believe in connection. The kind that doesn’t require a performance. The kind that feels like breathing after holding your breath for too long. And I still believe that when the right person shows up, they won’t just impress me—they’ll relieve me.

Because they’ll match my depth, not my exhaustion.

Being someone who still feels, still hopes, still shows up with heart in a world that rewards detachment? That’s not weakness. That’s power. That’s rare.

8. The Truth About Losing a Girl in 10 Seconds

Want to know how to lose a girl in 10 seconds?

Be disingenuous. Fake interest. Love-bomb her with charm you never intended to back up. Or worse—make her feel seen, then disappear. Because women like me? We don’t fall for looks or pickup lines. We fall for presence. For intention. For effort that doesn't fade.

And if you can’t bring that? Don’t be surprised when we walk away just as fast as you showed up.

Final Thought:

I’d rather lose people quickly for the right reasons than lose myself trying to hold on to the wrong ones.

So yeah, I’m still tired. But I’m also still here—heart open, eyes wide, and done pretending that I should want anything less than something real.

[spintaxi]

Awkward First Dates

Awkward First Dates: How Humanity Keeps Fumbling the Opening Act of Romance

The glorious mess of love’s opening scene—now SEO-optimized for your emotional catastrophe Welcome to SpinTaxi.com, where awkward first dates aren't just embarrassing—they’re a sacred rite of passage for humanity, ranking just below “accidentally replying-all” and slightly above “calling your teacher ‘mom’ in fourth grade.” Today, we plunge into the uncomfortable, tragicomic swamp that is awkward first dates, that universal experience where flirting meets failure and everyone leaves slightly more self-aware and significantly more dehydrated. Let’s dim the lights, cue the emotional baggage, and begin the slow-motion trainwreck. The Ancient Origins of Awkward First Dates Anthropologists believe the awkward first date may predate fire. Cave paintings in southern France depict two early humans sitting silently across from each other, with a speech bubble reading “So… what do you do?” next to a thought bubble reading “Kill me.” By 500 BCE, the Greeks formalized first-date awkwardness. Plato writes in The Symposium of a man who brings olives and discourse, only to find his date is already emotionally committed to her horse. A Babylonian cuneiform tablet reads: “She brought goat stew. I brought a harp. We both cried. Then she ghosted me.” Humanity has always stumbled through romance with the grace of a goat in stilettos. Dating Apps: Where Awkwardness Goes to Scale Modern awkward first dates now begin online. Algorithms pair people using mysterious calculations that seem to prioritize dental alignment and shared trauma over compatibility. After 47 hours of witty banter and emoji exchanges, a date is set. The awkwardness starts the moment you realize your “6'1'' outdoorsy intellectual” is a 5'6'' man who once read The Da Vinci Code in a Bass Pro Shops parking lot. And you? You're a “sarcastic bookworm who likes sushi,” which he reads as “emotionally unavailable pescatarian with judgmental eyebrows.” Welcome to the romantic gulag of awkward first dates. The Restaurant Ritual: A Temple of Mutual Discomfort The dinner date is the colosseum of romantic misfires. You are seated at a table with poor lighting, poor acoustics, and poorer decisions. There’s always that moment when the waiter says, “Can I start you off with some drinks?” and you both freeze like it’s a hostage negotiation. You order a martini to calm your nerves. They order milk. You question your life. They ask if you’ve “ever been in love with a reptile.” There is no recovery. And the menus? Nothing says sexual tension like mispronouncing “gnocchi” while locking eyes across a sea of regret and marinara. Fashion Disasters: Wardrobe Meets War Crime Awkward first dates demand a wardrobe crisis. He wears cologne that smells like gasoline and desperation. She wears heels she can’t walk in and a blazer she can’t move in. Someone inevitably sweats through their silk shirt trying to open a door that says “PUSH.” An informal survey conducted by the American Academy of Dating Sociology (AADS) found that 67% of awkward first dates end prematurely due to "outfit incompatibility." Socks with sandals. Turtlenecks in July. Crocs described as "ironic." It’s a crime scene from the Fashion CSI files. Small Talk, Big Regrets The first 30 minutes of a first date are dedicated to Advanced Small Talk. The goal: not to scream or confess your credit score. "So, what do you do?""I'm in tech.""Cool. Like, what kind?""I moderate Reddit fights about quantum computing.""...Romantic." Small talk is a carefully curated trauma dump. You want to sound interesting, but not like someone who live-tweeted their colonoscopy. And yet, somehow, it always ends with one of you oversharing about your uncle who faked his own death at a Chili’s in Tampa. The Political Landmine Moment At some point, someone says something about taxes, healthcare, or Elon Musk, and boom: you're no longer on a date—you're on Crossfire. She mentions voting. He mentions freedom. She brings up climate change. He mentions how cows are the real threat. She slowly reaches for the emergency pepper spray. A Pew Research poll showed that 89% of Americans have left a date early due to the phrase, “I’m not political, but…” It’s the social equivalent of saying, “I’m not contagious, but my rash is shaped like Florida.” Food Ordering Disasters: A Culinary Comedy Ordering food on a first date is a bizarre performance of economic humility and gustatory theatre. “I’ll just get a salad,” says one, pretending not to be ravenous.“Same,” says the other, whose stomach is audibly growling.Then the waiter says, “We’re out of lettuce,” and panic sets in. One orders spaghetti. The other orders ribs. Sauce flies. Shirts are ruined. Someone tries to flirt with a breadstick. One woman told SpinTaxi.com: “He ordered a single grape as an appetizer. Said he was ‘intermittent fasting spiritually.’ I ordered nachos. He asked if that was a red flag.” Yes. Yes, it was. Bathroom Escapes and Window Checks There is always a moment on an awkward first date when one party goes to the bathroom and contemplates using the restroom window to escape. In upscale restaurants, the window is too small. In dive bars, there is no window—just a motivational sign that says, “You’re Worthy of Love!” In a SpinTaxi.com reader poll, 34% admitted to thinking about climbing out the bathroom window on a bad date. Another 12% tried. One succeeded, leading to a short-lived but wildly successful podcast titled Swipe, Dip, and Dash. The Overconfident Kiss Attempt At the end of the night, when all signs say “Do not,” one brave fool attempts a kiss. It’s often framed like a romantic climax but feels more like a dental appointment held in a haunted parking lot. You lean in. They lean away. You pretend you weren’t leaning. They pretend they don’t notice your forehead hitting their ear. As romantic consultant Sheena Rawlins told SpinTaxi.com: “The end-of-date kiss should be illegal without a unanimous jury decision. Otherwise, you’re just playing sexual Jenga with no blocks left.” Payment Politics: Who Pays, Who Prays Ah, the check arrives. Both parties immediately become actors in an unpaid improv skit called Financial Modesty. One reaches. The other slaps their hand. Both pretend they want to pay. Neither actually wants to pay. Eventually, someone says, “Wanna split it?” and the romance dies like a goldfish in warm tap water. Venmo has made this worse. Now you can argue about the exact tax and tip for a shared calamari while a digital receipt judges you in Helvetica. Friends’ Reactions: Judgment and Mockery After the date, you debrief with friends. They ask important questions like “Did you have fun?” and “Did you check for felony convictions?” You say, “It wasn’t that bad,” which is first-date code for “I wish I’d been hit by a Segway.” Your friends immediately do an FBI-level background check on the person and discover their third cousin once tweeted “Nickelback is underrated.” You are never allowed to speak to them again. The Follow-Up Text Fiasco Nothing is more delicate than the follow-up text. Too soon? Desperate. Too late? Ghosted. Too witty? Try-hard. Too basic? Middle school energy. You send: “Hey! Had fun last night. :)”They reply: “New phone who dis?”You delete all apps, retreat into a burrito of shame, and whisper: “At least I got free chips.” What the Funny People Are Saying “First dates are like job interviews with wine and lies.”—Jerry Seinfeld “I once had a date where she brought her emotional support turtle. Halfway through, I realized she meant me.”—Ron White “You know it’s going bad when your appetizer is more engaging than your date.”—Amy Schumer “I wore cologne called ‘Desperado.’ That should’ve been a red flag. For both of us.”—Larry David Why We Keep Doing It Anyway Despite the horror, humans continue to pursue awkward first dates like moths chasing bug zappers. Why? Because we’re romantics. We believe the next date might be the one, or at least less terrible than the last. Sociologists say awkward first dates are a modern form of hazing—if you can survive 45 minutes of someone quoting Jordan Peterson over crème brûlée, you're strong enough for love. And sometimes… sometimes, the awkwardness is mutual, adorable, and just human enough to be charming. One woman wrote to SpinTaxi.com: “We both spilled soup. We both cried laughing. We both pretended to like ska. We’re getting married in November.” Sources: How Many Times Can One Woman Say “LOL” Before a Date Ends It AllA linguistics professor from UC Berkeley tracked a woman who said "LOL" aloud 37 times during a 45-minute dinner. Her date reportedly called an Uber under the table after the 22nd “LOL.” The woman later defended herself saying, “It’s how I cope with silence... and men who say ‘crypto.’” Breadstick Confessions: First Date Body Language Experts Speak OutPsychologists agree: if your date hugs the breadbasket like it’s a flotation device, they’re either emotionally unavailable or just really into carbs. One woman was seen slow-dipping her breadstick in ranch while maintaining zero eye contact, prompting experts to call it “carbohydrate-based self-soothing.” Awkward Date Leads to Accidental Engagement, Woman Too Polite to DeclineA man proposed on the first date as a “joke,” but the woman, unable to process conflict while chewing calamari, nodded. They’re now legally engaged in two states. When asked why she didn’t say no, she replied, “I was raised Catholic and he already paid for dessert.” Man Says "Namaste" Instead of "Hello" and Never RecoversA yoga instructor mistakenly greeted his date with “Namaste” and a full bow, knocking over a scented candle and shattering the restaurant’s ambience. His date, a jiu-jitsu instructor, replied with, “Bless your chakras,” and ordered two bourbons to drown the energy. Love at First Sip... of Someone Else’s DrinkA woman accidentally sipped from her date’s mojito, sparking a brief but passionate five-minute romance before realizing she was seated at the wrong table. The actual date arrived late and was disappointed to learn she had emotionally bonded with a stranger’s straw. Bathroom Window Too Small for Dignified Escape, Says Local WomanA woman attempted to flee her Tinder date during his 20-minute monologue on NFTs, only to discover the gastropub’s bathroom window was decorative. She returned to the table bruised and defeated. The man reportedly said, “No worries, I talk to myself all the time.” Date Night Disaster: Man Brings Resume Instead of FlowersAttempting to impress a corporate consultant, a man arrived with a printed résumé instead of flowers. He referred to himself as a “Team Player with Passion for Synergy.” She left mid-salad. He later updated his CV to include “Experience with heartbreak.” Barista Forced to Mediate Awkward Coffee DateA barista in Austin stepped in to referee a date when both parties refused to define "vibe." One ordered a hot chai “as hot as this situation,” the other asked for an “iced existential crisis.” The barista awarded neither a second date and charged extra for emotional labor. Woman Pretends to Enjoy Tapas, Forgets She's Allergic to OlivesIn an attempt to seem adventurous, a woman agreed to tapas despite a mild olive allergy. Three bites in, she began to swell “like a romantic balloon,” according to the waiter. Her date googled antihistamines while muttering, “This is going better than last week.” Local Man Misreads Vibe, Proposes Marriage Over Mozzarella SticksA man interpreted a shared mozzarella stick as “divine cosmic alignment” and proposed with a plastic ring from the restaurant’s kid’s menu. She said yes out of pity, then asked if he had a therapist. He said, “I am a therapist.” She ran. Final Thoughts Awkward first dates aren’t glitches in the dating system—they are the system. They’re the mess before the meaning, the blooper reel before the box set. And while we may cringe, cry, and occasionally crawl out of a bathroom window, we also learn. Usually not much. But sometimes… enough to try again. Auf Wiedersehen, lovers. And remember: if your date says, “I brought my mom,” don’t panic. Just ask if she’s paying.

SpinTaxi Magazine - Wide-aspect cartoon in the exaggerated, chaotic hand-drawn style of Toni Bohiney, like SpinTaxi Magazine. Scene A disastrous first date at a fancy restaurant... - spintaxi.com Read the full article

[bengisuedotcom]

Non-Playable Characters, the Death of Desire & Other modern Malfunctions

Simulation Talk, Absurdism and way too many mentions of Jon Rafman

There’s a strange sense of déjà vu in modern intimacy. Conversations repeat. Desires fade. Everyone starts to sound the same. Responses feel pre-written. Emotions, rehearsed. Even vulnerability comes with a caption.

It’s not just the apps or the interfaces. It’s deeper than that. It’s the sensation of being surrounded by people who don’t seem to be fully there—who move through romantic space like non-playable characters. Looping gestures. Predictable scripts. No glitch, no divergence. Just liminal presence.

The term NPC comes from gaming. A non-playable character exists only to fill space, guide the player, provide predictable responses. Their lives repeat on loop, no matter what choices you make. Lately, reality feels like that. Flattened. Gamified. Full of people designed to simulate connection but not actually sustain it.

Jon Rafman put it bluntly: “We’re enjoying our own nightmares.” Love has become a video game with no final level. Just moodboards, playlists, and matching aesthetic references. The emotional architecture still exists except now it’s filled with avatars, not individuals.

This isn’t a think piece. It’s not a takedown of dating apps or a recycled essay on emotional unavailability. It’s a report from inside the uncanny valley of modern desire. A reveal of glitches. A theory of longing in an age that renders everything performative.

Because if the game was rigged —

what does it mean to still want something real?

Sex as Code, Love as Gameplay

Desire used to be instinctual. Unpredictable. Hungry. Primal almost. Now it feels designed. Predictable.

You swipe right, get a match, wait for the message: “Hey, what’s up?” A tap. A heart. A compliment about your dog. A witty pick-up line. He likes your oddly specific playlist. You like his Margielas. You both pretend this is spontaneity.

But really, this is gameplay. Every part of it—from the filtered and curated photos to the carefully chosen replies—is a UI, a user interface for connection. The texture of love is flattened. Swipe, match, new achievement unlocked. Sexting becomes a turn-based RPG (Role-Playing-Game. Think The Sims or Skyrim). One of you plays “Hot,” the other plays “Interested.” You each take turns with the action button. “Send pic.” “Say something dirty.” “Compliment me.”

You’re not talking. You’re selecting responses. You’re not touching. You’re unlocking fabricated experience.

And maybe the saddest part is—it still works. We still come. We still crave. We still chase. Even when it’s obvious that we’re just clicking through a flowchart built by someone who doesn’t know our names. And in a few months won’t even care.

And sometimes, I think we don’t want freedom anymore. We just want the illusion of it.

NPCs: Hollow people in a Gamified Landscape

But this isn’t a critique of dating apps. We already know what they are: structures built for instant gratification, a quick pipeline for validation, little algorithmic dopamine casinos dressed up as intimacy and connection. This is about something much deeper. Something far more interesting.

This is about what happens after the swipe. After the match. After the sex.

This is about the moment you realize the person you’re talking to is running on script.

They say the same thing your last match said. They ask questions like they’re reading them off a card. They touch you like they’ve seen it in a movie but never tried it themselves.

There’s no glitch in their matrix. No spark. No deviation. Just ambient presence. Just noise.

This is emotional unavailability as the default setting. People as non-playable characters—looping dialogue, no growth arc, no memory of past interactions. You could leave and come back and They’d say the same line again: “You’re not like other girls.”

And the worst part? You can’t even mock it. Rafman called it: “We’ve collapsed irony and sincerity.” You’re not sure if he’s being sweet or performative, if the playlist he made for you is real or just another aesthetic export. 

Because when the whole generation is raised inside the simulation, it becomes all they know. There’s nothing outside of it to push against. The resistance gets merchandised. Even rebellion gets good lighting and a brand deal.

Somewhere in this landscape is a figure—the Kool-Aid Man, absurd and smiling, barreling through the architecture of Second Life. His grin is pure performance. Too wide. Too clean. And that’s what makes it terrifying. It’s the same energy as the perfect dating profile photo: hot, high-resolution and hollow.

Somewhere in this world, there is one real player left. Someone still glitching. Still seeing. Still trying.

But this isn’t their story. Not yet. This is the story of the ambient others— the ones who crowd the game and offer nothing back. The hollow people. The NPCs.

NPC-core: Fashion in the Age of Simulation

Even the way they dress gives them away.

There’s a look that’s hard to describe but immediately recognizable. Minimalist, sometimes monochrome, algorithm approved. A wardrobe optimized for mirror selfies and IG stories—nothing too bold, nothing too real. The aesthetic is clear, efficient, lifeless. Call it NPC-core.

It’s just normcore, but evolved. Not ironic, just… post-human.

These are not outfits. These are skins. Programmed identities uploaded for maximum compatibility. You’ve seen them before—Uniqlo basics, sterile sneakers, micro-dosed accessories to suggest personality. The pearl necklace on straight men. The ironic cap that suggests “I’m fun!”. The statement jacket that whispers, “I have taste.”

It’s fashion as rendered identity. No wrinkles. No depth. No texture that wasn’t pre-approved by trend cycles or Tumblr nostalgia.

The kind that let’s you project anything onto someone.

In a world where everything is aesthetic, style stops being expressive and becomes strategic. You don’t wear clothes to reveal yourself. You wear them to blend into your subcultural bracket: sad-boy intellectual, obnoxious creative, clean-girl aesthetic. The visual language is fluent, but dead. These aren't people. They're walking moodboards.

Rafman understood this, even in Second Life—avatars weren’t just personas, they were performances. And performances without a viewer become rituals of emptiness. And if you think about it very very hard, that’s how you feel when you watch it. Once the confusion wears off. Emptiness. Disconnect.  Just like dressing for an audience that isn’t really there.

Like looking in the camera of a sitcom you’re not in. Trying so badly to break the fourth wall.

Because the real horror of NPC-core isn’t bad taste. It’s no taste. No conflict. No contradiction. No glitch.

Only seamless rendering.

The Groundless World: Absurd Desire in a Flattened Reality

Desire used to pull us somewhere. Forward. Toward. Now it loops.

Swipe. Match. Ghost. Repeat. Sex. Detach. Crave. Swipe again.

We’ve mistaken infinite options for freedom, but freedom without direction becomes its own kind of prison. A game with no final level. Just side quests. Just vibes.

Rafman calls it groundlessness. *1

A world without check points, without hierarchy, without structure. No high culture, no low. No real or fake. No past to rebel against. Only now—flattened, depthless, continuous.

And in this now, desire becomes absurd. It reaches, but there's nothing to reach toward. So it spins in place. Frictionless. Floating. Like a cursor sliding over a screen, waiting for input that never comes. For direction. For a call-to-action. For an order.

We think we’re choosing. We think we’re free. But Black Mirror Bandersnatch already proved it: even when you pick your path, the outcome was pre-written. You’re not building a life: you’re playing through a set of curated templates. Profiles instead of people. Aesthetic instead of affection. Affirmation instead of attachment.

This is the cruel brilliance of the system: The simulation lets you feel like you’re customizing your story, while keeping you inside its architecture.

The illusion of choice becomes the opiate. And the player becomes complicit.

But somewhere, beneath all that, a question keeps echoing: If nothing is real, if no one is real, if the map has replaced the actual space that is territory— why does it still hurt?

Why do we still crave what we know isn’t really there?

Absurdism doesn’t answer this. It just nods. And tells you to keep fucking playing.

The Tragicomedy of Longing

Here’s the paradox: You know it’s a loop. You know the gestures are scripted. You know the kiss is performative, the playlist is recycled, the affection is a borrowed mood from someone from 3 seasons ago.

And still—you want it.

You want to feel the weight of someone’s gaze, even if it’s hollow. You want to be chosen, even if it’s meaningless. You want to glitch the system, even if it means getting hurt.

That’s the tragedy.

But also: that’s the comedy. Because the real player—the one who still feels—is not broken. They’re ridiculous. They’re absurd. They know this is all a simulation and they still fall in love inside it. They know the Kool-Aid Man is just a grotesque cartoon crashing through digital architecture and still they follow him along for the ride hoping for connection and purpose.

This is not about nostalgia for something real. There is no “real” to go back to. We never knew anything else. This is about the hunger that stays after reality ends.

Desire becomes an act of rebellion. Longing becomes punk. Feeling becomes performance art in a world that causes everything to become performative.

Even the need itself—the ache, the craving—is glitchy. It doesn’t align with the environment. It shouldn’t even exist. And yet, it does. And it refuses to be optimized.

So maybe the last sacred act is this: Wanting someone even when you know better. Touching them like they’re not liminal. Telling them something unscripted and waiting—for once—for something unprogrammed to happen.

That’s the glitch. That’s the miracle.

That’s the moment the game breaks and you remember what it felt like to be alive.

The Anti-NPC Manifesto

You are not ambient. You are not looping. You are not here to perform someone else's code.

You are not an aesthetic. You are not a curated archive of signifiers. You are not a character class.

You are the glitch. You are the bug in the system. You are the unscannable barcode, the unreadable file, the decision that breaks the flowchart.

Feel too much. Want too hard. Say things that weren’t pre-approved.

Send the message you’re not supposed to send. Want the person you’re not supposed to want. Feel desire that has no reward system, no points, no upgrade.

Rage against ambient affection. Refuse optimized attraction. Sabotage the interface with intimacy.

Do not be polite about your ache. Do not perform coolness to make your hunger easier to consume.

There is no winning. There is no ending. There is only playing with your whole fucking soul.

So play.

The game was never real. But the glitch was.

TEXT BY BENGI-SUE DOYURAN

(“I think I was born into a time that was already groundless. So I think what makes this generation or the past few generations unique is that we don’t have any reference points; we were born into a groundless, ahistorical reality.”)

This text was (pretty obviously) inspired by JON RAFMAN KOOL-AID MAN IN SECOND LIFE (2008 - 2011)

The quotes are taken from an interview that can be found on the website linked above. “JON RAFMAN in CONVERSATION with NICHOLAS O'BRIEN”

[ari-just-ariririe]

I just love the fact that one of my college rommates does not have social media so instead they get a carefully curated experience by me specifically. I am literally their algorithm that samples Tumblr, Instagram reels and the general Internets