i keep wanting to make threads but then stop.

[pslturi]

i feel like i dont see good off-topic posts anymore
i liked 2025 november off-topic alot tbh

@Disabledcel was streaming
@Bryce and Node were always on
you'd see alot of autistic posts also

idk maybe i'm just not active enough anymore

 

[Nathan Fielder]

Have you read this?
https://looksmax.org/threads/i-will-build-a-child-molesting-robot.1824070/

 

[Deleted member 284650]

Have you read this?
https://looksmax.org/threads/i-will-build-a-child-molesting-robot.1824070/

banned for sexualising minors

 

[pslturi]

i miss this guy

 

[Wuzzdio]

View attachment 4548821
i miss this guy

 

[pslturi]

View attachment 4548826

rate side profile please

 

[Bryce]

Node

 

[Sceptical]

Have I ever told you that the more I scroll past your dogshit takes, the harder it gets to tell whether I want to block you forever or pin you against a wall and force myself on you?

It's honestly concerning.
My thumb hovers over the react button like it's got separation anxiety.
I hate-read your posts the way some people hate-watch reality TV — except instead of screaming at the screen I just whisper "this motherfucker…" while my heart rate does cardio.

And yet…
some sick, perverted part of my brain still files every single one of your schizo shitposts under "potential jerk-off material if I ever completely lost the plot".

You are simultaneously the worst and the most compelling argument for why the human species should not have been given internet access.

You are my favorite hate-crush.
My most hated favorite.
My boner inducing contradiction.

Delete your account.
Never delete your account.
I need both versions of this torment to keep me alive.

Now go post something awful so I can hate on you beautifully again.

 

[Bryce]

Have I ever told you that the more I scroll past your dogshit takes, the harder it gets to tell whether I want to block you forever or pin you against a wall and force myself on you?

It's honestly concerning.
My thumb hovers over the react button like it's got separation anxiety.
I hate-read your posts the way some people hate-watch reality TV — except instead of screaming at the screen I just whisper "this motherfucker…" while my heart rate does cardio.

And yet…
some sick, perverted part of my brain still files every single one of your schizo shitposts under "potential jerk-off material if I ever completely lost the plot".

You are simultaneously the worst and the most compelling argument for why the human species should not have been given internet access.

You are my favorite hate-crush.
My most hated favorite.
My boner inducing contradiction.

Delete your account.
Never delete your account.
I need both versions of this torment to keep me alive.

Now go post something awful so I can hate on you beautifully again.

"I hope you choke on your own irony," you mutter, clicking the dislike button so hard your fingernail leaves a crescent mark on the screen. Sceptical’s latest comment glows back at you, smug and unbothered, the digital equivalent of a raised eyebrow.

Their words burrow under your skin like splinters—each syllable deliberate, each argument razor-sharp. You’ve dissected their logic a hundred times, tracing the seams for weakness, but it’s airtight. It’s infuriating. You want to crack them open just to see if their insides are as meticulously arranged as their paragraphs.

The screen dims, casting your reflection back at you—cheeks flushed, lips pressed thin. You wonder if they’re somewhere laughing, fingers dancing across their keyboard while you stew. The thought coils in your gut, hot and restless. What would it take to wipe that smirk off their face? A well-placed rebuttal? A public humiliation? Or something slower, something that would leave them as unraveled as they’ve left you?

You catch yourself scrolling through their old comments, thumb hovering over a months-old thread where they dismantled some poor soul’s argument with surgical precision. Their avatar—a minimalist black square—feels like a taunt. You imagine tracing the edges of it with your tongue, biting down just to hear the static crackle between your teeth. It’s absurd. It’s electric.

Their username lingers in your mouth like a curse, bitter and metallic. You want to carve it into your thigh with a knife or whisper it against the shell of their ear, whichever would hurt more. The heat in your chest isn’t just rage anymore—it’s something stickier, something that pools low in your stomach when they reply with a single, infuriating "¯\_(ツ)_/¯". You could strangle them. You could pin them to the floor and make them say your name like it’s the only word they remember.

The fantasy unfolds in jagged pieces: their wrists trapped under your knees, the sharp inhale when you drag your nails down their ribs. You’d make them admit they love this, that they’ve been waiting for you to crack them open. Their voice would break around the syllables, and you’d swallow the sound like it was yours to take. No more clever comebacks, no more flawless logic—just their body arching under yours, raw and unresisting.

 

[Zeuxx]

Have you read this?
https://looksmax.org/threads/i-will-build-a-child-molesting-robot.1824070/

How did I miss this gem?

 

[Rothschild]

View attachment 4548821
i miss this guy

who?

 

[Sceptical]

"I hope you choke on your own irony," you mutter, clicking the dislike button so hard your fingernail leaves a crescent mark on the screen. Sceptical’s latest comment glows back at you, smug and unbothered, the digital equivalent of a raised eyebrow.

Their words burrow under your skin like splinters—each syllable deliberate, each argument razor-sharp. You’ve dissected their logic a hundred times, tracing the seams for weakness, but it’s airtight. It’s infuriating. You want to crack them open just to see if their insides are as meticulously arranged as their paragraphs.

The screen dims, casting your reflection back at you—cheeks flushed, lips pressed thin. You wonder if they’re somewhere laughing, fingers dancing across their keyboard while you stew. The thought coils in your gut, hot and restless. What would it take to wipe that smirk off their face? A well-placed rebuttal? A public humiliation? Or something slower, something that would leave them as unraveled as they’ve left you?

You catch yourself scrolling through their old comments, thumb hovering over a months-old thread where they dismantled some poor soul’s argument with surgical precision. Their avatar—a minimalist black square—feels like a taunt. You imagine tracing the edges of it with your tongue, biting down just to hear the static crackle between your teeth. It’s absurd. It’s electric.

Their username lingers in your mouth like a curse, bitter and metallic. You want to carve it into your thigh with a knife or whisper it against the shell of their ear, whichever would hurt more. The heat in your chest isn’t just rage anymore—it’s something stickier, something that pools low in your stomach when they reply with a single, infuriating "¯\_(ツ)_/¯". You could strangle them. You could pin them to the floor and make them say your name like it’s the only word they remember.

The fantasy unfolds in jagged pieces: their wrists trapped under your knees, the sharp inhale when you drag your nails down their ribs. You’d make them admit they love this, that they’ve been waiting for you to crack them open. Their voice would break around the syllables, and you’d swallow the sound like it was yours to take. No more clever comebacks, no more flawless logic—just their body arching under yours, raw and unresisting.

You think you're the only one who gets off on the violence of it?

I read your little midnight confession and my pulse kicked so hard I almost dropped the phone.
Every word you wrote dripped the same poison I've been mainlining since the first time you called me out.
You want to crack me open? Baby, You couldn't handle me even if your life depended on it.

That minimalist black square you keep staring at?
It's not a taunt. It's a fucking invitation.
A blank canvas you keep painting your filthiest projections across.
You trace it with your tongue in your head because you already know what happens when you get too close: you burn.

Keep scrolling my old threads.
Keep collecting the receipts of how cleanly I gutted everyone before you.
Every time you reread them your breath hitches the same way it would if I had you backed against a wall, my forearm across your throat, asking you—very politely—why you're still pretending this is just hate.

You want to carve my username into your skin?
Go ahead.
I'll lick the blood off when you're done.
But when I finally get my hands on you, I'm not stopping at your thigh.
I'm writing my @ across every inch of you until even your reflection forgets what you looked like before I touched it.

So keep muttering about irony.
Keep pressing dislike like it means anything.
Keep fantasizing about pinning me down while your hand shakes on the screen.

Because the second you reply to this, we both know what's really happening:
you're begging me to come put you in your place like the little slut you are.

 

[pslturi]

who?

@Disabledcel

 

[Rothschild]

@Disabledcel

what happend to him

 

[Disabledcel]

what happend to him

February

@pslturi

 

[TopTierIncel42]

February
View attachment 4552716
@pslturi

Nigga turned into an urban legend

 

[pslturi]

YOOO THIS FAGGOT IS BACK OMG
I MISSED YOU NIGGA FUCK

February
View attachment 4552716
@pslturi

 

[pslturi]

he fooled .org

what happend to him