random stuff

NotaNuffian

NotaNuffian

This does spark joy.
Joined
Nov 26, 2019
Messages
5,299
Points
233
 
Tempokai

Tempokai

The Overworked One
Joined
Nov 16, 2021
Messages
1,396
Points
153
A bedtime story about Moderator John from Royal Road:
Ah, John. A man whose very existence feels like it was scripted by a mediocre satirist—someone who tried to write a tragic antihero but instead stumbled into creating a walking irony factory. Born in the radiant sprawl of Californyanya (that bizarre, sun-soaked fever dream where avocado toast is a currency and moral superiority is handed out like Whole Foods coupons), John was destined for greatness—or so he thought. In reality, he was destined for something far more mundane: a life of digital gatekeeping and a profoundly conflicted relationship with the human form.

John’s youth was one of contradictions, as is often the case with children raised in Californyanya. His parents were the archetypal representatives of the coastal elite: his father, an adjunct philosophy professor who never quite landed tenure because he insisted on writing postmodern critiques of IKEA assembly instructions; his mother, a Reiki healer who dabbled in essential oils and a peculiar kind of neo-paganism that involved burning sage in Starbucks bathrooms. Together, they instilled in young John a sense of intellectual superiority that would serve him poorly in every practical context.

From an early age, John developed an obsession with rules—an ironic twist for someone raised in a household that preached "free-spirited individuality." But for John, rules weren’t just guidelines; they were sacred texts, inviolable and absolute. He became the kind of child who’d snitch on classmates for chewing gum during a math test, not because it affected him but because it offended his abstract sense of order. This compulsion for control found its first true nemesis in the form of anime.

At thirteen, John stumbled upon his older cousin’s contraband VHS collection: colorful, oversized VHS tapes adorned with those provocative, otherworldly figures. Wide eyes, unnaturally proportioned torsos, and an unsettling ability to make everyday objects look vaguely erotic. John was scandalized, and not in the way you’d hope for a hormone-riddled teenager. Instead of fascination, he felt a strange mix of revulsion and self-righteous indignation. It wasn’t the nudity—it was the implied intent that offended him. Something about those animated girls, with their exaggerated femininity and cheerful, boundary-less energy, seemed to mock his need for structure.

High school was a blur of academic achievement and profound social mediocrity. John excelled in debate club, where he discovered the joy of constructing arguments so convoluted they doubled back on themselves like a snake eating its tail. He was less successful in his interpersonal relationships, earning the nickname "Buzzkill John" for his relentless dedication to turning every joke into a lecture on societal norms. He graduated valedictorian, of course—though his speech, a dense meditation on the ethics of cafeteria seating hierarchies, was met with polite applause and a palpable sense of relief when it ended.

Then came the indoctrination. Ah, university—the crucible where John’s latent self-righteousness was forged into an ideological cudgel. He attended an elite liberal arts college, the kind that boasts a 4:1 student-to-tree ratio and courses with titles like The Semiotics of Sandwiches. It was here that John truly came into his own as a crusader for the nebulous cause of "cultural accountability." Professors praised his ability to dissect media through a critical lens so sharp it often rendered the original work unrecognizable. Fellow students tolerated him, perhaps sensing that John wasn’t so much an ally as he was a puritan, ready to sacrifice joy on the altar of theoretical purity.

But something about Californyanya grated on John as he aged. The very permissiveness that had shaped him also repelled him. He longed for a sense of purpose, a place where his rigid worldview could thrive without the constant threat of ironic detachment. Enter Israel: the land of his forefathers, where every argument was treated as a contact sport and existential crises were baked into the national identity. John moved there with the zeal of a pilgrim, convinced that his talents would find their ultimate expression in a culture that valued debate as much as he did.

Unfortunately, the reality of living in Israel was less transcendent than John had hoped. Jobs were scarce for someone whose greatest skills involved deconstructing Pixar films. After a series of failed attempts to establish himself as a thought leader in niche online forums, John stumbled upon the world of digital content moderation. It was perfect. Here was a job that combined his love of rules with his deep-seated need to control what others saw, consumed, and enjoyed.

And so, John became a moderator for Royal Road, the sprawling digital ecosystem of amateur novels, where aspiring authors and artists could upload their creations in hopes of finding an audience—or, at the very least, avoiding John’s wrath. His particular domain was approving—or, more often, rejecting—cover art. It was a position of immense power, one he wielded with all the grace of a mall cop hopped up on expired protein powder.

Here’s the thing about John: his decisions weren’t arbitrary. They were deeply informed by his own neuroses, which he’d painstakingly disguised as moral principles. Naked muscular men? Approved without hesitation. To John, they were the pinnacle of platonic idealism, a celebration of form that transcended base desires. But anime girls? Oh no. To John, they were a Pandora’s box of sin, a gateway drug to the kind of chaotic exuberance he’d spent his life suppressing. He saw in their exaggerated curves a threat not just to "community standards" but to his own tenuous grip on order.

Was it misogyny? Perhaps. But more than that, it was fear. Fear of the unruly, the joyful, the unapologetically feminine. Fear that somewhere, someone was enjoying themselves in a way John could neither understand nor control. Freud might have diagnosed him with a severe case of repressed desire, Jung would’ve labeled him as the archetypal shadow, and Lacan would’ve just laughed and poured another drink.

And so, John sits in his modest Tel Aviv apartment, sipping herbal tea and methodically rejecting any artwork that dares to challenge his sensibilities. Each rejection is a small act of defiance against a world he feels has wronged him, a futile attempt to impose his will on an internet that couldn’t care less. He is a tragic figure, not because his life is hard, but because it is so thoroughly consumed by the need to control the uncontrollable.

In the end, John isn’t a villain. He’s just a man, trapped by his own contradictions, doomed to fight a losing battle against the very thing he secretly envies: freedom. And somewhere, in a forgotten corner of his subconscious, a cheerful anime girl laughs, her oversized eyes sparkling with mischief.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Top