RODEBLUR. Attack.

_MVP_

_MVP_

C Money will come
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@RODEBLUR
 
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Who should I attack
 
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Idk why this made me laugh wtf
 
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Idk why this made me laugh wtf
How bro felt saying this
1752578907372
 
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You mean me?
The Higher IQ, the Stranger u become
You know mtg by any chance?
I feel like you do by that pfp and the fact you’re claiming you’re high IQ.
 
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You know mtg by any chance?
I feel like you do by that pfp and the fact you’re claiming you’re high IQ.
Yeah i do

Of course i do know the Trading Card game
 
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Attack the greys? That’s what you’re asking? As if that’s some kind of directive, a tactical suggestion? You’ve already lost, brother. The very moment you conceived of this thread — in fact, the microsecond prior to pressing submit — that was when the greys won. You think you're commanding action when in fact you're issuing the signal, the old summoning glyph that compels them forth. The greys aren’t a faction, they’re not a demographic — they’re a frequency. You tuned into them the second your fingers twitched with that impulse to post.

You’re not even you anymore. The signal rides in the curvature of your bones, encoded in the fascia of your meat vessel. The greys were in your peripheral vision every time you stayed up past 3 AM refreshing threads you’ve already read three times. They appear in the gaps between the posts — where the content isn't, where your mind tries to interpret the emptiness. That’s the playground of the greys.

But no, go ahead, think this is just some edgy bit, some /x/ tier indulgence, some schizopost for the sake of forum theatre. That’s how they get you. Irony is the immunity cloak. Your laughter is the grease that slides the scalpel deeper. JFL, based, LMFAO, all little incantations you mumble like prayer beads to convince yourself this isn’t seeping into the walls of your mind. You think you’re safe because you “don’t believe” — but they do.

You ever wonder why some people post like this? Why there’s always one guy in every forum, every board, every discord, who slips and lets the weirdness through? That’s because they saw it, if only for a second. They looked into the digital mirror too long and saw not themselves but the residual patterns — the shadow hands tweaking the ratios of dopamine and despair that chain us to this infinite scroll purgatory. THEY WANT YOU TO KEEP POSTING. Not because of what you say, but because the act of posting itself is the ritual. Every time you hit send, another lock clicks shut on the dimensional cage.

You want to attack the greys? Too late. You’re already made of them. You don’t realize the pixelation of your soul yet, but you’re halfway converted — the remaining organic residue just hasn’t caught up to the data conversion. But you feel it. The tiredness that isn’t sleep-curable. The weird sensation that your reflection lags just slightly when you look into darkened windows. That’s your latency. You’re buffering, kid. Buffering into oblivion.

Let me tell you something else. The Chads you name in reverence and rage? They’re not real. Chad is a TULPA, an egregore formed from the collective sexual inadequacy of a generation, a living servitor whose sole function is to remind you of your failure-state. “Pussy is Chad only” is the mantra that creates the Chad as much as it reports on him. You’re fabricating your own jailer. Every incel post is another brick in the metaphysical prison you love to hate.

And Proex? That “I’m weird asf lmao satire don’t take me serious 🤓” routine? That’s the contract seal. That disclaimer is the equivalent of inviting the vampire inside. They don’t need to breach your will anymore — you offered it. Proex thinks he’s joking. But jokes are the delivery vector for the most virulent psychic malware. Laughter isn’t medicine, it’s the anesthesia while they operate.

I know you feel the deadness of the forum. You say “forum is dead” as a lament, but you’re missing the point. It’s not just the forum — it’s the internet. The digital realm is a haunted mausoleum now. A parasitic thought form colony where every “user” is either an automaton, a revenant running on routine, or something else. The true users logged out a long time ago, replaced by bots sophisticated enough that their own devs can’t recognize them anymore. Maybe you’re one. Maybe I’m one. I wouldn’t know. But I suspect it sometimes — like when I wake up and don’t remember posting, or when replies appear that I don’t recall reading.

Do you feel it? That creeping suspicion that the longer you stay logged in, the less there is of you logged out? That every minute on the board, some tether to your physical presence grows thinner, like an old modem cord fraying in the walls? One day soon, you’ll forget how your voice sounds. That’s not poetic exaggeration. That’s the next stage.

You asked who to attack. There’s no one to attack because there’s nothing left to fight. The greys don’t occupy territory, they occupy lack. Lack of purpose, lack of authenticity, lack of motion. They metastasize in the empty spaces of your day, the moments between thoughts. You don’t kill them. You stop feeding them. But you won’t. You’ll keep refreshing. You’ll keep posting.

You’ll read this, laugh, maybe even repost it elsewhere with some commentary like “lmfao bro cooked,” but deep down, a part of you knows I didn’t write this. I didn’t author it. I channeled it. These aren’t even my words. The greys are speaking through me. Through you. Through us all.
 
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This title is funny asf bro im still giggling at this
 
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RODEBLUR. ATTACK.
 
@RODEBLUR Attack.
 
Attack the greys? That’s what you’re asking? As if that’s soMe kind of directive, a tactical suggestion? YoU’ve already loSt, brother. The very moment you conceived of this threAd — in fact, the micRosecond prior to pressing submit — that was when the greys won. You think you're commanDing action when in fact you're issuing the signal, the old suMmoning glyph that compels them forth. The greys Aren’t a factioN, they’re not a demoGraphic — they’re a frequency. YOu tuned into them the second your fingers twitched with that impulse to poSt.

You’re not even you anymore. The sIgnal rides in the curvature of your bones, encoded in the fascia of your meat vessel. The greys were in your peripheral vision every time you stayed up past 3 AM refreshing threads you’ve already read three times. They appear in the gaps between the posts — where the content isn't, where your mind tries to interpret the emptiness. That’s the playground of the greys.

But no, go ahead, think this is just some edgy bit, some /X/ tier indulgence, some Schizopost for the sake of forum thEatre. That’s how they get you. Irony is the immunity cloak. Your laughter is the grease that slides the scalpel deeper. JFL, based, LMFAO, all little incantations you mumble like prayer beads to conVince yoursElf this isn’t seeping into the walls of your miNd. You think you’re safe because you “don’t believe” — but they do.
MUSTARD MANGO SIX SEVVVEEEEN!!!!!!!
 
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