If you don't like walls of text, too bad for you, you lazy, illiterate fuck.
That's right. I dont care about you. I can't afford to. You don't care about me. Your life will continue spiraling in whatever waste recepticle you were in to wind up in a place like this. You and I are drawn to the anonymynity that the Internet provides for one thing, and one thing only:
It's better than real-world contact.
We came to this board because we know that there is a road to hell and we are on it.
Why? What was it that shunned us so? It hardly matters- it is different for me than you. But if you were a successful businessman earning 50K a year, why would you be wasting your time in a shithole like this? Buckets of live crabs are known to pull each other down as the water that they are in begins to boil. Monkeys, horses, dolphins, and ants have been know to kill their own kind for the reason of trying to establish dominance.
It is pride that led me here-misguided as it was. And the beautiful, fairy-tale magical realm of nature is just as much of a bitch as we are. Either be an alpha, and have all the skills that pay all the bills, or be an omega, and have "good riddance" as a eulogy. People are considered to be smarter and nicer the more beautiful they are, instinctually. And so they succeed and move on with life to the point that they dont need something as outwardly damaged as imageboards to add meaning.
We troll, and shitpost, and write what we do beacuse in a world that could give two shits if we appeared in an obituary tomorrow, we can have that momentary fleeting fame of whatever distinguishes our carefully-crafted online persona from everyone else. What a rush it is, to be acknowledged. Defying evolution itself for but a moment, and allowing people to see our masterful misdirections. It's not as if we had anything else to contribute. Its not as if they'd care otherwise.
Its not as if our actions had meaning.
Five minutes of fame is addicting, yet fleeting. At the -chan clones, we can make people love or hate the masks we create, and yet, behind it all, we are not even ourselves anymore. Our identity fades into oblivion, and there is nothing to balm the dissection of our very essence but the promise that others may hurt as we hurt. And if that is not successful, we can always show how much cruelty fate has for us, and make others feel our pain nonetheless. Then we an exist, but only as an ever-fading shadow of the self.
No one knows you, no one loves you, and you will die poor, alone, and unloved.
That is the only truth that the world you are in has to offer.