GhostBoySwag
Jolly 5'8 sub5 human
- Joined
- May 27, 2024
- Posts
- 2,196
- Reputation
- 3,746
There’s a tragic irony bleeding through every corner of Looksmax. A forum once rooted in cold realism and evolutionary determinism has decayed into a sanctuary of delusion. What was supposed to be a wake up call to nature’s cruelty is now wallpapered with avatars of women who would sooner set themselves on fire than acknowledge the men worshipping them. Porn stars. Filtered influencers. Genetic elites. They might as well be from another species. And yet, these same men flood the board with desperate posts, craving validation from fantasies that were never meant for them.
They claim to speak for the blackpill but they are its mockery. Its downfall. Their obsession with unreachable idols doesn’t reflect brutal truth. It exposes a deep rooted denial. You do not embody the blackpill. You are the disease corroding its meaning. Every time you indulge in the same cycles of lust, fantasy, and hopeless yearning, you betray what we were meant to be. Your language is nihilistic but your actions drip with the need for approval, exactly the weakness you pretend to have outgrown.
You don’t accept the truth. You romanticize your own destruction. You scream doom while still clinging to hope. That is why no one takes the blackpill seriously. That is why we are mocked. Not because of our beliefs but because of people like you. You weren’t built for this. Not mentally, not socially, not genetically. The game was over before you were born. That’s fine if only you’d accept it. But instead, you cope. You chase shadows. You simp behind screens and pretend it’s war.
You weaken everything. You distort the message. You are not soldiers of truth. You are its orphans, crying in echo chambers. Keep your fantasies. Stay in your delusions. But stop pretending you're part of this. We buried hope a long time ago. We don’t chase ghosts. We don’t hold hands. We don’t dream.
The real blackpill isn’t about community or comfort or commentary. It’s about detachment. It’s about seeing the void and not blinking. But your kind can’t stomach that. You need each other. You need threads, memes, and idols. You are not blackpillers. You’re just lonely.
And YouTube. Don’t get me started. A platform that claims to prize rawness and truth is now a digital graveyard of recycled misery. Faceless rants. Stolen avatars. Static screens and mumbled scripts. Copycats chasing algorithm crumbs. Everyone trying to be dbdr without understanding a word he said. Even the high effort ones with their mics, intro music, and watered down Schopenhauer quotes are nothing but philosophical cosplay. They confuse lifelessness for depth and assume that being unpopular makes them profound.
Where’s the fire. Where’s the soul. It’s gone, sacrificed for clicks and comfort. What’s left is grayscale whining in the shape of content. But the few of us who still create, who still shape words like weapons, who animate and build, we are different. We are not content. We are craft.
You are the hum of dead air to our thunder.
You are the background noise of what could’ve been something real.
Let the rest rot in their digital confessionals.
We build what remains.
They claim to speak for the blackpill but they are its mockery. Its downfall. Their obsession with unreachable idols doesn’t reflect brutal truth. It exposes a deep rooted denial. You do not embody the blackpill. You are the disease corroding its meaning. Every time you indulge in the same cycles of lust, fantasy, and hopeless yearning, you betray what we were meant to be. Your language is nihilistic but your actions drip with the need for approval, exactly the weakness you pretend to have outgrown.
You don’t accept the truth. You romanticize your own destruction. You scream doom while still clinging to hope. That is why no one takes the blackpill seriously. That is why we are mocked. Not because of our beliefs but because of people like you. You weren’t built for this. Not mentally, not socially, not genetically. The game was over before you were born. That’s fine if only you’d accept it. But instead, you cope. You chase shadows. You simp behind screens and pretend it’s war.
You weaken everything. You distort the message. You are not soldiers of truth. You are its orphans, crying in echo chambers. Keep your fantasies. Stay in your delusions. But stop pretending you're part of this. We buried hope a long time ago. We don’t chase ghosts. We don’t hold hands. We don’t dream.
The real blackpill isn’t about community or comfort or commentary. It’s about detachment. It’s about seeing the void and not blinking. But your kind can’t stomach that. You need each other. You need threads, memes, and idols. You are not blackpillers. You’re just lonely.
And YouTube. Don’t get me started. A platform that claims to prize rawness and truth is now a digital graveyard of recycled misery. Faceless rants. Stolen avatars. Static screens and mumbled scripts. Copycats chasing algorithm crumbs. Everyone trying to be dbdr without understanding a word he said. Even the high effort ones with their mics, intro music, and watered down Schopenhauer quotes are nothing but philosophical cosplay. They confuse lifelessness for depth and assume that being unpopular makes them profound.
Where’s the fire. Where’s the soul. It’s gone, sacrificed for clicks and comfort. What’s left is grayscale whining in the shape of content. But the few of us who still create, who still shape words like weapons, who animate and build, we are different. We are not content. We are craft.
You are the hum of dead air to our thunder.
You are the background noise of what could’ve been something real.
Let the rest rot in their digital confessionals.
We build what remains.
