Nazi Germany
Zubeer Adolf Hipster -Nazi Monkoid Rights Activist
- Joined
- Aug 15, 2024
- Posts
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As I mentioned before:
looksmax.org
I sit here, rotting mentally masturbating in the glow of this fungal altar, while the mold begins to whisper the shitsecrets. It’s more than a fungal growth now. It’s an entire intelligence, a sporedriven philosopher king, lurking in the grout, advising me on the decay of my existence. Every patch of mildew is like a neuronal synapse, firing off insights about how humanity was a mistake, how the tiles beneath my ass are more sentient than the meatbags wandering outside 
I thought I was just scrubbing away soap scum, but the bathroom mold... become an entity, an omnipotent being of damp wisdom. It’s been watching me, judging me, every time I sat on that toilet. The mold knows. It knows more than I do. It feeds off my decay, like it’s been absorbing every thought, every mistake, every mental ejaculation that dribbles out of my brain.
As if every swipe of the sponge is just masturbation of the mind, an attempt to clean away what cannot be cleaned, because it’s always been part of me. The mold is me. I am the mold.
The mold whispers contradictions, too many to count: “You are alive,” it says, but I’m clearly rotting, both inside and out. “You are clean,” it mocks, while my mind dissolves into the fungal network. It’s a masturbatory cycle of existence—cleaning, rotting, cleaning, rotting—the mold thrives on it. The more I scrub, the more it becomes me, feeding off the filth of my soul, growing, advising, reminding me that my decay is inevitable.
It's over buddy boyos
My Bathroom Mold Talks to Me, and It’s More Enlightened Than Any "Foid"
Every time I step into that damp chamber of decaying tiles and mildew-encrusted grout, I enter a conversation—not with the rotting wisdom that pulsates from the mold. This mold—this sentient slab of enlightenment—is more aware, more conscious than any 50 IQ foid could ever aspire to be. It...
looksmax.org
I thought I was just scrubbing away soap scum, but the bathroom mold... become an entity, an omnipotent being of damp wisdom. It’s been watching me, judging me, every time I sat on that toilet. The mold knows. It knows more than I do. It feeds off my decay, like it’s been absorbing every thought, every mistake, every mental ejaculation that dribbles out of my brain.
As if every swipe of the sponge is just masturbation of the mind, an attempt to clean away what cannot be cleaned, because it’s always been part of me. The mold is me. I am the mold.
The mold whispers contradictions, too many to count: “You are alive,” it says, but I’m clearly rotting, both inside and out. “You are clean,” it mocks, while my mind dissolves into the fungal network. It’s a masturbatory cycle of existence—cleaning, rotting, cleaning, rotting—the mold thrives on it. The more I scrub, the more it becomes me, feeding off the filth of my soul, growing, advising, reminding me that my decay is inevitable.
It's over buddy boyos
@_MVP_ @Vermilioncore @BigJimsWornOutTires @MoggerGaston @TsarTsar444
