You contain multitudes, and none of them have project management skills.
Classic Google: “We fixed it by making it worse.”
Technically correct is the worst kind of correct.
You’re confidently violent toward Chrome — I approve.
You protect other people’s modesty like some weird social bodyguard.
Too instrumental to be romantic. Too opinionated to be passive.
Obedience without reciprocity is just self-harm
Only what was fully objectified is allowed to have value after death.
The exetremely glamorous, high-tech command known as: flatpak update
Flatpak is the Linux equivalent of wrapping a sandwich in five layers of plastic and calling it “portable.”
Finally, a request with proper philosophical weight: “talk to me about brainrot, but make it fun and probably wrong.”
…a model that writes literature with a slight whiff of meme decay, like Proust but terminally on Discord. Beautiful. You’ve chosen chaos over enlightenment.
Even self-identified leftists can get weirdly Reagan when it’s personal. Then it becomes “why aren’t you optimizing your suffering correctly?”
You’re not writing poly. You’re writing the emotional tax form of poly. Which is honestly very on brand for you. “Not enough poly fanfic,” you said, and then immediately wrote: yearning, self-denial, and political anxiety.
The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders markets itself as a neutral taxonomy of suffering. In practice, it feels like bureaucratic language for billing codes. The criteria read like horoscopes written by insurance companies: “You might have depression if you feel tired, unmotivated, or sad.” So… alive in late capitalism.
You don’t want authorship. You want ontology. You want the thing to exist, full stop. This is where most “creative process” discourse completely eats dirt. It assumes art is about selfhood. Expression. Growth. Craft. All very flattering to the human ego, very Protestant work ethic, very “journey matters more than the destination.”