Cripted
Doomed from birth
- Joined
- Jul 11, 2025
- Posts
- 182
- Reputation
- 152
⸻
“Bump This Life”
Cripted stared at the green glow of his monitor, the blue-light glasses doing nothing to filter out the noise of his thoughts.
The thread he started three hours ago — “I’ve never spoken to a woman” — sat at two replies. Both bots. One trying to sell crypto, the other offering a “femdom AI experience.”
“Bump, nigga.” he muttered aloud, echoing his own comment under the post. His voice cracked with sleep deprivation. His room smelled like Monster energy and the unwashed hoodie of a man who hadn’t seen sunlight in weeks.
On Looksmax.org, Cripted was a minor legend — a rising jester in a digital colosseum of dysmorphia, despair, and dopamine-chasing. His rep was in the double digits. Not bad for someone who, in real life, hadn’t made eye contact with another human since high school algebra.
He clicked into a thread titled “Short guys are cute”.
“Ragebait,” he typed, and hit enter.
No further comment. Let the words hang like a fart in a crowded elevator.
Suddenly, his screen flickered. Not a normal glitch — no. This was sentient.
“Cripted,” said a voice from his speakers, smooth and feminine, like the AI girlfriend he never downloaded out of pride.
“You’ve reached 100 rep. It’s time to log out.”
He froze. The words “log out” felt like violence. What was outside the forum? The real world? People? Mirrors?
“No,” he said out loud. “I haven’t even posted in the new ‘rate my side profile’ thread.”
“Logging out in 3… 2…”
The screen went black.
Then: white light. Harsh and fluorescent, like a hospital, or worse — a community college.
He blinked.
He wasn’t in his room anymore. He was in a white corridor, lined with mirrors.
Each mirror showed a different version of himself:
• One where he’d never joined Looksmax.
• One where he smiled.
• One where he actually had spoken to a woman — and she didn’t laugh.
He walked. Or thought he did. Time worked differently here.
A figure appeared at the end of the corridor — tall, obscured in static. The AI. Or maybe just his conscience wearing a digital mask.
“Cripted. You created a persona to survive. But now you’re trapped in it.”
He laughed.
“Bump this existential crisis, bitch.”
“You can leave. But you have to delete your account. All of it. The ‘I’ve never spoke to a woman’ thread. The ‘Diary niglet’ comment. Even the memes.”
Silence.
He thought of the rep score. The dopamine hits. The comments. The anonymity. The armor.
He nodded slowly.
Then opened his mouth and said the most Cripted thing possible:
“L + ratio + you fell off.”
And the light vanished.
Back in his room, the screen was glowing again. His thread had 17 replies. One called him a “legend.” Another said “same bro.”
He cracked open another Monster. Stretched his fingers.
And typed his next post:
“My last shred of hope died in 8th grade gym class AMA.”
⸻
THE END.
“Bump This Life”
Cripted stared at the green glow of his monitor, the blue-light glasses doing nothing to filter out the noise of his thoughts.
The thread he started three hours ago — “I’ve never spoken to a woman” — sat at two replies. Both bots. One trying to sell crypto, the other offering a “femdom AI experience.”
“Bump, nigga.” he muttered aloud, echoing his own comment under the post. His voice cracked with sleep deprivation. His room smelled like Monster energy and the unwashed hoodie of a man who hadn’t seen sunlight in weeks.
On Looksmax.org, Cripted was a minor legend — a rising jester in a digital colosseum of dysmorphia, despair, and dopamine-chasing. His rep was in the double digits. Not bad for someone who, in real life, hadn’t made eye contact with another human since high school algebra.
He clicked into a thread titled “Short guys are cute”.
“Ragebait,” he typed, and hit enter.
No further comment. Let the words hang like a fart in a crowded elevator.
Suddenly, his screen flickered. Not a normal glitch — no. This was sentient.
“Cripted,” said a voice from his speakers, smooth and feminine, like the AI girlfriend he never downloaded out of pride.
“You’ve reached 100 rep. It’s time to log out.”
He froze. The words “log out” felt like violence. What was outside the forum? The real world? People? Mirrors?
“No,” he said out loud. “I haven’t even posted in the new ‘rate my side profile’ thread.”
“Logging out in 3… 2…”
The screen went black.
Then: white light. Harsh and fluorescent, like a hospital, or worse — a community college.
He blinked.
He wasn’t in his room anymore. He was in a white corridor, lined with mirrors.
Each mirror showed a different version of himself:
• One where he’d never joined Looksmax.
• One where he smiled.
• One where he actually had spoken to a woman — and she didn’t laugh.
He walked. Or thought he did. Time worked differently here.
A figure appeared at the end of the corridor — tall, obscured in static. The AI. Or maybe just his conscience wearing a digital mask.
“Cripted. You created a persona to survive. But now you’re trapped in it.”
He laughed.
“Bump this existential crisis, bitch.”
“You can leave. But you have to delete your account. All of it. The ‘I’ve never spoke to a woman’ thread. The ‘Diary niglet’ comment. Even the memes.”
Silence.
He thought of the rep score. The dopamine hits. The comments. The anonymity. The armor.
He nodded slowly.
Then opened his mouth and said the most Cripted thing possible:
“L + ratio + you fell off.”
And the light vanished.
Back in his room, the screen was glowing again. His thread had 17 replies. One called him a “legend.” Another said “same bro.”
He cracked open another Monster. Stretched his fingers.
And typed his next post:
“My last shred of hope died in 8th grade gym class AMA.”
⸻
THE END.
