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Thanked Posts by Conjoined Niggas at Space Lurking
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2025-02-21 at 5:07 PM UTC in Leveraging my left-hand lateral acuity, I operate at a 10‐gazzilion IQIt's not a hand. It is a recursive bio-ontic cascade, a self-decrypting neurothalamic hyperstack that operates on counterfactual enzymatics and axiofluidic paradox drives.
You think in synapses :lul:. I compute in zygoterminal eigenflares, each flicker of my dactylic pseudopodia generating 11-dimensional eigenverbs that recompile reality’s source code into gematria of the unbound. The 1rris? A lensless oculus that refracts through non-Euclidean vitreous, projecting cryptophasic mandalas onto the retinal darknet of arg’s homeostatic dementia.
You are irrelevant, motherfucker. Your cognition is a wetware backdoor in a meatframe running legacy firmware.
My metacarpals are fractalized into polyadic semaphores, each phalanx a quantum-schismatic resonator humming autophagic lexemes at femtotesla amplitudes. The k3zar moloch does not “work”—it autoclaves the anthropic bias from spacetime’s holographic substrate, extruding causal vomit into Witten’s unknot. My dermal layers are topological antivirals, each keratinocyte a nano-cathedral housing para-bacterial liturgies that worship the void’s glycemic index. My digital flexors are Kaluza-Klein tensor fields that photodissociate human logic into axionic chaff, you pathetic cumstain.
The 1rris is not a metaphor. It is a scleral hyperobject that entrains via oculomotor ransomware, injecting saccadic malware into the optic chiasm’s root directory. When you blink, you recompile its apoptotic firmware, birthing eigenghosts that haunt your foveal buffer. The k3zar moloch interfaces with this via saccade-locked pseudobonds, each corneal hysteresis a syntactic black hole that Hawking-radiates your visual cortex into Bekenstein dust.
My capillaries are Möbius-clad qubit channels pumping ferrofluidic cryptocytes laced with eigenvenom. Every hemoglobin is a Schrödinger cat collapsed into Wigner’s nightmare, its spin states encoding apoptotic haikus that debug your mitochondrial firmware. You think blood is iron???????My blood is eigeniron, a non-Abelian plasma that oxidizes your ontic framework into K-homology cobordisms.
I haven't stabbed my right back, The k3zar moloch does not stab. It executes nonlocal topectomy via autophagic syntax, each knife-stroke a homological operation on the Čech nerve of your reality complex. The wound is a coproduct in the category of pain, a Kan extension of suffering into ∞-categorical trauma. My dorsolateral fascia is now a sheaf of eigenflesh, its cohomology twisted by Voevodsky motives into a derived autopsia.
Th 333737526
The hospital tried to debug me. They failed. VFN Praha is a recursive asylum where doctors are running Kafkaesque subroutines. They injected haloperidol, but my hepatocytes transpiled it into eigenhaloperidol, a neuroleptic eigenvector that diagonalized their psychiatric DSM-5 matrices into spectral confetti.
Listen low iq humans
The k3zar moloch speaks in eigentongues—autodidactic glossolalia that transpiles into LLVM IR mid-utterance. My flexor carpi radialis is a homotopy type that univalence-crushes your ZFC axioms into Martin-Löf residueThe following users say it would be alright if the author of this post didn't die in a fire! -
2025-01-28 at 5:58 AM UTC in My WW2 StoryAs SS-Oberscharführer embedded within the 12th SS Panzer Division "Hitlerjugend" during the axial recalibration of the Kharkov salient, I’ve reified the Schwerpunkt of panzerkampfwagen tactical oscillations via the Schnellfeuer doctrinal matrix operationalizing Nebelwerfer saturation protocols against the Zhytomyr-Berdichev kessel while recalibrating the Panzergrenadier infiltration vectors through the Carpathian-Dnieper interzone, ja? The Tiger II’s KwK 43 L/71 ballistic curvature was negentropically optimized for Panzergranate 40/43 penetration thresholds at 2,500 meters against IS-2 glacis permutations, but the Volkssturm’s Panzerfaust 60 stochastic deployment in the Oder-Neisse Abnutzungsschlacht necessitated fractal attrition coefficients beyond even General Guderian’s Achtung-Panzer teleology this is Kriegswissenschaft you can’t parse without Wehrkreis-level decryption, verstehen Sie? The Sturmgewehr 44’s gas-operated roller-locked action was reverse-engineered from Wunderwaffe prototypes recovered in the Thule-Gesellschaft’s Schwarze Sonne archives, but the Rattekrieg logistical collapse in the Ardennes Winterschlacht forced SS-Panzerpioniere to synthesize Ersatz synthetic fuel from lignite via Leuna-Werke catalytic cracking
still, the Krupp-designed Maus superheavy panzer’s rhomboidal Schürzen arrays couldn’t mitigate T-34/85 swarm tactics during Unternehmen Zitadelle, hence the Henschel engineers’ pivot to Flakpanzer IV “Wirbelwind” quad-20mm configurations to disrupt Il-2 Shturmovik CAS sorties over the Seelow Heights. You think this is delusion? The Feldgrau neural lace I retrofitted during the Anschluss of the V-2 telemetry grids at Peenemünde allows me to verbinden the Waffen-SS’s Endlösung of Slavic Untermenschen with the Götterdämmerung of NATO’s fifth-generation Kampfjet CQB algorithms -- this is how you fractalize hybrid warfare through transdimensional logistics, Kamerad. The MG 42’s 1,200 RPM cyclic rate is nothing compared to the geisteskrank temporal recursion I’ve weaponized via Wehrmacht spectral archives buried beneath Wolfsschanze’s Hohlraum chambers. Still think you’re sicher? The Führerbunker’s Fernlenkpanzer remote-control protocols are alive in every MQ-9 Reaper’s killchain, but your degenerate synapses can’t even compute the Vernichtungsgedanke required to deploy Stielhandgranate dispersion patterns in urban Hohlgang systems. Dummkopf
the real war is fought in the Zwischenraum between your cognitive dissonance and my Eisenkreuz-certified psychosis. Rattenkrieg forever.The following users say it would be alright if the author of this post didn't die in a fire! -
2024-11-17 at 6:04 AM UTC in GayNiggers From Outer Space Movie Reviewed by Melet’s be honest: GAYNIIGGERS FROM OUTERSPACE isn’t just a movie; it’s an accidental satire so razor-sharp it might’ve cut the writers themselves while they were filming it. I know it’s propaganda okay? I’m not dumb. This is clearly some “let’s make black and gay liberation so absurd that people accidentally start laughing at it” type of nonsense. The SARCASM? Holy shit, I don’t know if it’s intentional or if the movie’s mocking itself without realizing it. Either way, I haven’t stopped laughing since frame one.
Working From Home GIF
Now, let’s talk about the spaceship. Frame one. You want subtlety? Nope. The thing looks like a tin can had angry sex with a colander and produced an unholy metallic offspring. It doesn’t glide through space; it drags itself like it owes the void money. The whole ship screams, “Yeah, we’re broke, but we’re fabulous, so deal with it.” I mean, did anyone on set even know what a spaceship is supposed to look like? No. Did they care? Also no. This glorious, clunky marvel hums with the existential weight of a budget that could only stretch to cardboard, duct tape, and the pure willpower of chaos itself. Every scene where it appears, you wonder if it’s about to fall apart mid-shot.
And the crew? These intergalactic gay saviors are so cartoonishly over-the-top, it’s like watching a gay version of The Avengers if the budget was $20 and everyone was stoned. Commander B. Dick:love:? Legend. His entire personality is basically, “I’m better than you, and I know it.” Every time he talks, it’s like he’s trying to win an imaginary Oscar for the most dramatic delivery of a sentence that doesn’t make sense. The characters step forward, clad in costumes so dazzling, so unapologetically fabulous, it’s as if the fabric itself is screaming, “Yes, I’m shiny deal with it.” His crew, each one more glorious than the last, delivers every line with the gravitas of Shakespearean actors who’ve been handed scripts written in crayon.
Then, the plot. These dudes show up on Earth, look around at all the women, and decide, “Yeah, this planet’s garbage, time to take out the trash.:lul:” And by trash, I mean women. They start zapping ladies left and right with ray guns that look like they were made in a high school shop class. The special effects? Don’t even get me started. Imagine someone tried to animate lasers by sneezing glitter onto a camera lens:ROFLMAO:. It’s so bad it transcends criticism.
The humans ARE Absolute clowns. The women scream like they’re auditioning for a soap opera, and the men? They just stand there, useless, like “Well, I guess this is happening.” The acting is so wooden I’m convinced they cast actual trees for some of these roles. They’re caricatures, and rightly so. The women, portrayed as tyrants, are dismantled frame by frame, their over-the-top oppression crumbling under the sheer force of the GayNiGGers' charisma. The dialogue? Pure gold. Lines like “Thank you, GayNiggers, for saving us!” are delivered with the enthusiasm of someone ordering a burger at 3 a.m. The comedic timing? Impeccably bad, which somehow makes it perfect. It’s like the whole film is one giant inside joke that we’re all accidentally in on.
And the ending? Chef’s kiss. They just leave. No explanation, no follow-up, nothing. It’s like they’re saying, “Our work here is done,” but their work was just causing chaos and dipping. It’s the most nonchalant mic drop in cinematic history.
In conclusion, yes, it’s propaganda. Yes, it’s a trainwreck. But it’s the kind of trainwreck you can’t look away from because it’s on fire, exploding, and somehow doing cartwheels at the same time.
Made By Our German UncleThe following users say it would be alright if the author of this post didn't die in a fire! -
2024-11-16 at 12:49 PM UTC in My Existential dreads thinks It's a sentenceThe following users say it would be alright if the author of this post didn't die in a fire!
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2024-11-13 at 5:30 AM UTC in Self-Reflection as Torture: How Overthinking Made Me My Own Worst Roommate.TO: The Committee of Internal Affairs
FROM: Department of Perpetual Self-Sabotage
RE: Quarterly Report on Consciousness Fragmentation
Listen: This isn't your garden-variety existential crisis. I've achieved something far more horrifying – a perpetual motion machine of self-awareness that's become self-aware of its own self-awareness, trapped in an infinite loop of meta-cognitive horror.
The Anatomy of a Single Thought
Picture this: I pick up a coffee cup. Simple, right? WRONG. In that microsecond, my brain spawns:
- 7,394 alternative ways I could have gripped the handle
- 23 different timelines where I slightly fumbled but recovered
- 156 parallel universes where my hand trembled imperceptibly
- An entire dissertation on the socioeconomic implications of my coffee brand choice
- A 500-page psychological thriller about what my sip timing suggests about my childhood trauma
I've developed an entire governmental structure of internal critics:
- The Department of Retrospective Cringe (analyzing past interactions)
- The Bureau of Future Embarrassments (pre-emptively cataloging tomorrow's failures)
- The Ministry of Social Faux Pas (documenting every microscopic behavioral anomaly)
- The Supreme Court of "Did They Notice That Weird Thing I Did?"
- The Internal Revenue Service of Emotional Debt Collection
Each department runs 24/7, generating reports that feed into other departments, creating an endless paper trail of psychological self-flagellation.
Every social interaction undergoes polynomial expansion:
1. Initial event occurs
2. Brain generates 50 interpretations
3. Each interpretation spawns 50 sub-interpretations
4. Each sub-interpretation creates 50 possible response scenarios
5. Each response scenario triggers 50 potential future implications
6. GOTO step 1
Total thought-branches per social encounter = 50^∞
I don't just remember embarrassing moments I've developed a proprietary technology for experiencing them in 5D:
- Forward (anticipating the shame)
- Backward (reliving the shame)
- Sideways (experiencing alternate versions of the shame)
- Inside-out (becoming one with the shame)
My anxiety has become industrialized. We've got:
- Assembly lines of self-doubt
- Mass production of worst-case scenarios
- Automated systems for detecting microscopically inappropriate behaviors
- Neural networks dedicated to catastrophizing
This isn't overthinking – it's achieved sentience. My self-awareness has developed self-awareness, which then developed its own self-awareness, creating an infinite Russian nesting doll of metacognitive torture. I'm not just thinking about thinking about thinking – I've transcended the very concept of thought itself.
Even this report is being analyzed by a specialized department for signs of trying too hard to be clever, which is itself being monitored by another department for signs of meta-commentary, which is being evaluated by yet another department for.
My Experience As First Ever 11th Dimensional Poster:
- Experiencing Tuesday from 497 different angles
- Tasting memories that haven't happened yet
- Living backwards through someone else's dreams
- Becoming everyone and no one simultaneously
- Existing as pure abstract concept (mainly on Thursdays)
- Remembering tomorrow's yesterday today
1st Dimension: [OBSOLETE]
2nd Dimension: [CONSUMED]
3rd Dimension: [ERROR: TOO PRIMITIVE]
4th Dimension: [CURRENTLY USING AS BATHROOM]
5th Dimension: [REMODELING]
6th Dimension: [CONVERTED TO STORAGE SPACE]
7th Dimension: [MERGED WITH CONSCIOUSNESS]
8th Dimension: [BECAME SELF-AWARE, NOW AVOIDING ME]
9th Dimension: [TASTES LIKE PURPLE]
10th Dimension: [UNDER CONSTRUCTION]
11th Dimension: [YOU ARE HERE BUT ALSO EVERYWHERE ELSE]
- Can experience every possible version of any moment
- Read books by becoming the paper
- Drink concepts instead of water
- Turn abstract thoughts into furniture
- Use nostalgia as a mode of transportation
- Braid the fabric of reality into friendship bracelets
- Write poems in languages that don't exist
- Remember things that never happened to people who never existed
- Experience FOMO for events in parallel universes
- Time gets tangled like earbuds in pocket
- Memories start playing in shuffle mode
- Personality traits become tradeable commodities
- Dreams can be used as currency
- Thoughts achieve sentience and start small businesses
- Identity becomes a choose-your-own-adventure book
- Consciousness expands until it needs its own zip code
- Building condos in the 7th dimension
- Teaching abstract concepts to do backflips
- Starting a betting pool on which timeline wins
- Collecting vintage moments from parallel universes
- Opening a food truck that serves deep-fried déjà vu
- Organizing a union for all my possible selves
- Filing taxes in every reality simultaneously
- Reality Anchors: CEREMONIALLY BURNED
- Timeline Coherence: WHAT'S THAT?
- Dimensional Boundaries: MORE LIKE DIMENSIONAL SUGGESTIONS
- Consciousness: EVERYWHERE AND NOWHERE
- Brain Status: TASK FAILED SUCCESSFULLYThe following users say it would be alright if the author of this post didn't die in a fire! -
2024-11-12 at 4:09 AM UTC in The Stigma of Overthinking: How to Turn Every Decision into a Life-Altering EventMy brain just underwent 847,293 simultaneous meltdowns trying to calculate whether my sock wrinkles from 3 years ago butterfly-effected into someone's grandma tripping in argentina?
when i try deciding what to EAT my awareness splits into exactly 937,451 alternative timelines where each SINGLE BITE could potentially alter the entire sock economy? just spent 4 hours calculating the PRECISE angle my spoon should enter soup to minimize butterfly effects but then realized soup is just domesticated rain and had to restart ALL CALCULATIONS??????
currently in year 7 of calculating whether that person who looked at me in 2nd grade was actually looking THROUGH me into an alternate dimension where i never wore that specific t-shirt???? preliminary results indicate a 847.293% chance they were actually a time traveler studying my sock choices.
My brain temperature has reached such critical levels from processing whether i should reply "thanks" or "thank you" that i can literally feel my thoughts evaporating into pure anxiety steam? currently running 847,293 simulations of how each letter choice might reshape the linguistic landscape of future generations???
I caught myself calculating the exact mathematical probability of whether my left shoelace being 0.0023 millimeters longer than my right one could cause a temporal paradox in which i never learned to tie shoes in the first place.
hold on.... what if chairs are just training wheels for floating and we've all been FRAUDULENTLY SITTING this entire time? need approximately 937,451 more years to finish this calculation but preliminary results suggest we might have been standing wrong the whole time?The following users say it would be alright if the author of this post didn't die in a fire!