InanimatePragmatist
There is nothing for your genetics.
- Joined
- Feb 13, 2025
- Posts
- 3,234
- Reputation
- 4,173
There is something pathetically ironic about the average user on Looksmax. A board supposedly forged from the crucible of realism and determinism, now polluted with the very thing we were meant to reject, false hope. They plaster their avatars with the faces of women who would rather set themselves on fire than look twice at them. Porn actresses, Instagram filters, genetic titans who reside in realms so far from their reach it borders on comedy. Yet they post and post, they yearn and they pine. All the while they have the audacity to bark about blackpill truths.
You do not represent the blackpill. You are the cancer of it. You are its parody. Every time you lust over those unattainable idols, you expose yourself, not as a man grounded in nature’s cruelty, but as a dreamer in denial. A contradiction. A walking, typing farce. Do you not realize the contradiction of spitting blackpill venom while your subconscious is still addicted to the validation loops of normie desire? Your words are nihilistic, but your soul reeks of cope. You chase shadows. You romanticize your own damnation and wonder why no one respects us. Why society mocks us. It is you. You and your delusional kind. You were not built for them. Not mentally. Not socially. Not genetically. The womb did not favor you. Evolution did not deem you suitable. The game was lost before your first breath. And that’s fine, so long as you accept it. But you don’t. You cope. You obsess. You simp from the shadows while screaming doom from the rooftops.
You degrade our credibility. You weaken our message. You are the stillborn children of false hope. Stay in your fantasy. Stay in your asylum of artificial lusts. But don’t pretend you're one of us. We buried hope long ago. We don’t chase ghosts unlike you grown manchildren.
None of you are blackpillers. All of you are low class creatures who need a community, a group to call friends. The blackpill has none of that. There is no hope, purpose, attachment or anything. It is the purity of nothingness what your mindless psyche cannot accept.
As for YouTube, a supposed haven for “truth,” for “rawness,” for “reality”? It’s a graveyard. A digital landfill overflowing with bitching avatars and blank screens. Faceless men with no craft, no care, no commitment. Just voiceless rage wrapped in static images, copying dbdr like soulless NPCs reciting a script they barely understand. Where is the edge? Where is the soul? Gone. Traded for algorithm crumbs and recycled punchlines. Even the “high-effort” channels, the ones with mics, intros, maybe a stale quote from Schopenhauer, are rehashes of rehashes. Political commentary with a nihilist skin suit. Boomers who think owning a thesaurus makes them prophets. Monotone messengers who confuse stagnation with stoicism, and think their mediocrity is profound just because it’s unpopular.
There’s no fire. No originality. Just grayscale despair and secondhand content pretending to be sermons. The few of us left, those who still create, animate, sharpen our work like a blade, we are not the same. You are the lukewarm static to our thunder. You are the low-test husks of what could have been a real movement. Let the masses rot in their bedroom confessional booths. We are the architects of what remains.
You do not represent the blackpill. You are the cancer of it. You are its parody. Every time you lust over those unattainable idols, you expose yourself, not as a man grounded in nature’s cruelty, but as a dreamer in denial. A contradiction. A walking, typing farce. Do you not realize the contradiction of spitting blackpill venom while your subconscious is still addicted to the validation loops of normie desire? Your words are nihilistic, but your soul reeks of cope. You chase shadows. You romanticize your own damnation and wonder why no one respects us. Why society mocks us. It is you. You and your delusional kind. You were not built for them. Not mentally. Not socially. Not genetically. The womb did not favor you. Evolution did not deem you suitable. The game was lost before your first breath. And that’s fine, so long as you accept it. But you don’t. You cope. You obsess. You simp from the shadows while screaming doom from the rooftops.
You degrade our credibility. You weaken our message. You are the stillborn children of false hope. Stay in your fantasy. Stay in your asylum of artificial lusts. But don’t pretend you're one of us. We buried hope long ago. We don’t chase ghosts unlike you grown manchildren.
None of you are blackpillers. All of you are low class creatures who need a community, a group to call friends. The blackpill has none of that. There is no hope, purpose, attachment or anything. It is the purity of nothingness what your mindless psyche cannot accept.
As for YouTube, a supposed haven for “truth,” for “rawness,” for “reality”? It’s a graveyard. A digital landfill overflowing with bitching avatars and blank screens. Faceless men with no craft, no care, no commitment. Just voiceless rage wrapped in static images, copying dbdr like soulless NPCs reciting a script they barely understand. Where is the edge? Where is the soul? Gone. Traded for algorithm crumbs and recycled punchlines. Even the “high-effort” channels, the ones with mics, intros, maybe a stale quote from Schopenhauer, are rehashes of rehashes. Political commentary with a nihilist skin suit. Boomers who think owning a thesaurus makes them prophets. Monotone messengers who confuse stagnation with stoicism, and think their mediocrity is profound just because it’s unpopular.
There’s no fire. No originality. Just grayscale despair and secondhand content pretending to be sermons. The few of us left, those who still create, animate, sharpen our work like a blade, we are not the same. You are the lukewarm static to our thunder. You are the low-test husks of what could have been a real movement. Let the masses rot in their bedroom confessional booths. We are the architects of what remains.
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