The Last to Comment Wins
- Thread starter mrsimple
- Start date
Anonjohn20
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Which series? The horse girl one or the little witch one?
Worthy39
The protagonist's third cousin, twice removed
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I'm just now taking a closer look at your picture... this whole time, I thought you were a hedgehog sitting at a desk, and that what I now clearly see is your mouth was a nose. Damn I need my eyes checked.
Anonjohn20
Pen holding member
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Worth doing so. I always refused to do so because I could see clearly. The eye doctor figured out my eyes were not aligned, so they gave me corrective lenses, and my headaches went away.
JayMark
It's Not Easy Being Nobody, But Somebody Has To.
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it's over. the fumes have taken our beloved roaster.
Anonjohn20
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The AI bots have come for him.
Tempokai
The Overworked One
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I'm winning currently by forcing the butler to do cringe stories
On Monday, the voice made its entrance like spam in an inbox you forgot to filter.
“BUY TITANUM.”
The period was bossy. The caps were unnecessary. The misspelling was aggressive. It wasn’t even the kind of inner voice he could own in a memoir. It sounded like a committee of marketers trapped in a tin can.
He kept working. The spreadsheet blinked its green checkboxes at him like it was pleased with his restraint. That was its whole personality: conditional formatting and smugness.
“BUY TITANUM.”
He sipped coffee and pretended the second instance was a glitch. Maybe his brain had cached a stray ad between doomscrolls and caffeine. He clicked over to the news. The news clicked back with the usual parade of disasters that were, apparently, on sale. He tried to care. The voice didn’t.
“BUY. TITANUM.”
He minimized the browser, which did absolutely nothing to the inside of his head.
By Tuesday, the voice had established a schedule. It arrived during showers, when the water had the audacity to feel warm and the thoughts had the decency to loosen. It chimed in when he microwaved leftovers and stared at the rotating bowl like a suburban oracle. It whispered in his ear at the gym while he tried to convince his lower back that deadlifts were a healthy hobby.
He took out his phone and typed “Titanium.” Autocorrect approved. The voice disapproved.
“TITANUM.”
The discrepancy annoyed him. Spelling shouldn’t be the hill he died on, and yet the voice had planted a flag there. He searched anyway. Results bloomed: phones with titanium frames, watches that bragged about aerospace-grade alloys like they were going to escape Earth’s gravity by bench-pressing, wallets that promised to age with a patina of sophisticated manliness, water bottles that looked like they’d file restraining orders against fun. All sleek gray. All matte. All declaring themselves as artifacts of permanence in a world that couldn’t keep a streaming catalog the same for three weeks.
“BUY TITANUM.”
He closed the tab. He had bills. He had rent. He was not going to be the guy who bought a metal object to feel invulnerable. He had a perfectly functional phone that still loaded maps before he missed his exit. He had a watch that told time with numbers instead of pride.
Wednesday, the voice evolved. It learned timing. It pinged his skull right when his coworkers rolled past his desk with their lunch bragging and their new gadgets set on the table face-up like they’d arrived with dates. The newest one had that brushed look. The coworker flicked it in the light so it flashed. The phone, being plastic and glass, still somehow gleamed like pure superiority.
“Titanium frame,” the guy said, casually, which is the adverb people use when they’re desperate for you to store their information in a jealousy folder.
“TITANUM,” the voice breathed with reverence, which was embarrassing to hear from inside one’s own cortex.
He went for a walk after work to cool the brain and punish the voice by absorbing nature, which is a free thing everyone pretends they like. On the trail he passed a cyclist whose bike was conspicuously bare of paint. Raw metal shimmered like a boast. The cyclist inhaled with precision, the way you do when you own performance fabric. The voice hummed. Birds existed, but they did not have alloys and therefore contributed nothing.
At home he tried mindfulness. He sat on a cushion and let thoughts pass through like clouds, because that’s the belief system the app traded in. The voice did not pass. It parked. It idled. It turned up its own air conditioning and it fogged the windshield.
“BUY. TITANUM.”
Thursday, he booked a therapy appointment, which is what you do when you need a referee. He described the voice. He described the spelling. He described the way it seemed to lean on the period at the end like a finger on a trigger.
The therapist nodded, because nodding is included in the hourly rate. “Intrusive thoughts,” she said. “Cognitive defusion might help. When the thought arises, notice it. Label it. ‘I’m having the thought that I should buy Titanum.’ Then let it sit.”
He tried that. He sat. He watched his mind engineered like a mall. He labeled the thought. The thought adjusted its tie.
“I’m having the thought that I should—”
“BUY TITANUM.”
The therapist suggested breathing. He breathed. The voice continued without oxygen.
Friday, the algorithm caught up. His feeds turned gray and industrial. A guy with a beard and the wrist circumference of a bear unboxed a knife and whispered about grade 5 Ti like it was scandalous. An influencer in a loft with brick walls used a titanium spoon and moaned about conductivity. Every ad had a guy with a toolbox or a forest or both. The voice stopped pushing. The world volunteered.
He set up a content blocker, which is the digital equivalent of closing the curtains while leaving the door open. He blocked keywords: titanium, alloy, aerospace. He tried adding TITANUM in caps. The blocker blinked at him like, You sure? He was sure. The voice grazed the fence and grinned.
“BUY TITANUM.”
Saturday morning, he dreamed an Apple Store in a cathedral. High ceilings. Geniuses dressed in choir robes. Long tables of silver rectangles receiving incense. A Genius handed him a rectangle and sang the specs in Latin. He woke choking on the scent of citrus cleaner and holy water. He checked his bank account just to open his eyes fully. His balance sighed at him, which was rude, but accurate.
He tried sensible measures. He made a budget, which was a list of items that all failed to be Titanum. He opened a spreadsheet. The cells waited like a courtroom. Rent. Utilities. Groceries. Savings he pretended counted. Emergency fund that likely wasn’t for emergencies so much as for when capitalism forgot his name. He added a line item for Fun. It was bleak. The voice was unimpressed.
“BUY TITANUM.”
He put the word in the Notes app and stared at it, spelling it out like a curse, waiting for his perspective to snap. Nothing snapped. The word just sat there like a blunt instrument.
He cleaned his apartment for relief. This always extended his lifespan by roughly two hours of feeling like he had a grip. He culled old cords, dead batteries, the contents of a junk drawer that had developed its own sense of community. He held every object up and asked if it sparked joy or resentment or a need to apologize to it. He made a pile for donation. He put three items up for sale online, and, in a moment of predatory optimism, tagged them as “minimalism.” He told himself he was creating space.
This was true. For what, he didn’t specify.
By evening he found himself outside the mall, a place that promised weather and bathrooms and emotional instruction. He told himself he would people-watch, which meant observing strangers like a nature documentary but with worse hair. He walked past windows. Slick metal. Gray wool. Thin handsome mannequins who had never needed a power strip in their lives. Every store had a central artifact meant to anchor the entire brand identity and extract three paychecks. He felt targeted, which was accurate.
He found the tech store by following the scent of warm plastic. Inside, tables lay out devices as if fresh from a litter. He picked up a phone with that brushed-metal look and a smooth cold that wanted him. It wanted his face. It wanted to be smudged by him specifically. The sales associate glided over, a person with symmetrical teeth and the patience of a saint whose life depended on quota.
“Are you upgrading?” the associate asked.
“Thinking,” he said, which was a lie. He wasn’t thinking. He was narrating the performance of a thinking person while the voice inside him did laps with a victory flag.
“TITANUM,” the voice said, affectionate now, almost gentle, the way a con artist goes soft before the final pitch.
He put the device down, an act of heroism that would never be recognized by anyone. He walked out. He drove home. He didn’t buy. He woke up Sunday jittery like a raccoon that had read a cookbook.
The voice quieted. That was worse. Silence meant strategy. It let him pour cereal in peace and then nudged his elbow at the sink so he chipped a bowl. Tiny chip, nothing tragic, a line like a fault in a continent. The voice watched.
By afternoon he was on the stupidest search page in the universe, typing the stupidest misspelled word: TITANUM. He clicked through to the swamp of third-party sellers. He found a product with a name that read like it had been assembled by a blender: TITANUM PRO MAX ULTRA+ ELITE SERIES. The photo showed a mug. Or a lantern. Or a flashlight that wanted to be a sculpture. The description promised aerospace-grade construction and revolutionary design and the kind of lifestyle where you were never sticky. It cost too much for a cup and too little for a luxury item, which is the price point where shame lives.
He stared. He could feel the shape of relief on the other side, like stepping into a shoe that looked wrong but contained your foot.
He added it to cart. He filled in the address he’d filled in a hundred times. The site asked for a subscription to their newsletter, which had the needy energy of a magician’s assistant asking you to clap. He unchecked the box. He checked out.
The confirmation email arrived with a subject line that used exclamation points with the desperation of a birthday clown. The voice exhaled, a hiss of satisfaction.
“Good,” it said, softer. “Good. BUY TITANUM.”
“It’s bought,” he said to no one. “It’s done.”
The voice sat in the back of his mind and put its feet up on his hippocampus. It dozed.
He felt absurd and light and tragic all at once. He had become the type of person who surrendered to a typographical error. He walked around his living room like it was a new apartment. He opened the fridge and stared at the moral vacuum that is a half-squeezed bottle of mustard and said out loud, “I did it,” just to hear proof. His mouth formed the words like they tasted like something.
On Tuesday the package arrived. The box was gray. Of course the box was gray. The tape had a logo in a font that was trying to be military and failed at letters instead. He sliced it open. Inside, nestled in crumpled paper like a newborn in a nest built from disappointment, sat a cup.
It was a cup. Not a goblet, not a chalice, not a device. A cup with a lid. It had TITANUM printed on the side in stern block letters. It weighed more than something that holds fluids should. He picked it up. It cooled his hand. It did not confer status. It did not nudge him one inch closer to immortality. It would, best case scenario, keep coffee warm for thirty minutes longer than a regular cup and develop scratches that looked like he had lived.
He held it up to the light and waited to feel powerful. The light was indifferent. The room stayed the room. The voice—quiet now—made one last push.
“Nice,” it said, grudgingly. “Good. You bought. You did it.”
He poured coffee into the cup. He took a sip. It tasted like coffee, a beverage notable for making the same promises as every product while delivering the only honest one: you will feel less tired for a bit and then more tired.
The voice rolled over and went to sleep.
And then, from somewhere else in the mental apartment, a new neighbor cleared its throat. It had a reedy tone, like a subscription therapist.
“SUBSCRIBE YEARLY.”
He stared at the cup. It stared back with the confidence of an object that knows you just folded. He laughed, once, because the only other option was to join a commune.
He set the cup down carefully, like it might explode and redecorate his floor with a lifestyle blog. He opened his laptop again because of course he did. He found himself at the same blank rectangle that had started this mess. He opened a new spreadsheet and named it: Purchases That Were Supposed To Fix Me. Column A: Item. Column B: Cost. Column C: Promised. Column D: Delivered. Column E: Regret. He typed TITANUM CUP in the first row and filled the cells with the accuracy of a witness.
Item: TITANUM CUP. Cost: Too Much. Promised: Durability, Masculinity, Quiet Superiority, Hot Coffee Forever, Freedom From Decay. Delivered: A Cup. Regret: Medium-Low, which felt honest. He had known worse.
He sipped again. Still coffee. Still him. The world: unchanged. His brain: a mall with a new kiosk. He waited for the vendor to wave a sample in his face and tell him it would exfoliate his soul. He would probably accept. That’s the game. You are the field. The players run over you, and you are expected to be grateful for the divots.
He went for a walk that evening and saw the cyclist again, or a clone. Same bare metal bike. Same performance fabric. He nodded. The cyclist nodded back with the benevolence of someone whose identity had been successfully outsourced to an alloy. The voice muttered in its sleep. The new voice whispered about annual billing for something with a meaningless logo.
He returned home. He washed the cup as if it were a ritual that made the day tidy. He set it on the counter and looked at the print. TITANUM. No second “i.” A defect that had somehow strolled into his life wearing a crown.
He accepted it. This is what he had purchased: relief from a word, a pause in a chant. He had bought quiet. It would expire. It always expires. When it did, there would be another word waiting, freshly misspelled, already in uppercase, warmed up and stretching.
For now, he put the cup in the cabinet with the other cups that had won lesser battles. He sat on the couch. He didn’t feel better. He didn’t feel worse. He felt like a person who had caved—a person with a cup heavy enough to anchor a small boat.
In the corner of his mind, the period at the end of TITANUM dimmed like a bedside lamp. He could hear traffic outside, and his own breath, and the subscription voice trying on different intonations in the mirror of his skull. He took another sip of regular, mortal coffee, and let the whole glorious stupidity of it settle where it belonged.
“BUY TITANUM.”
The period was bossy. The caps were unnecessary. The misspelling was aggressive. It wasn’t even the kind of inner voice he could own in a memoir. It sounded like a committee of marketers trapped in a tin can.
He kept working. The spreadsheet blinked its green checkboxes at him like it was pleased with his restraint. That was its whole personality: conditional formatting and smugness.
“BUY TITANUM.”
He sipped coffee and pretended the second instance was a glitch. Maybe his brain had cached a stray ad between doomscrolls and caffeine. He clicked over to the news. The news clicked back with the usual parade of disasters that were, apparently, on sale. He tried to care. The voice didn’t.
“BUY. TITANUM.”
He minimized the browser, which did absolutely nothing to the inside of his head.
By Tuesday, the voice had established a schedule. It arrived during showers, when the water had the audacity to feel warm and the thoughts had the decency to loosen. It chimed in when he microwaved leftovers and stared at the rotating bowl like a suburban oracle. It whispered in his ear at the gym while he tried to convince his lower back that deadlifts were a healthy hobby.
He took out his phone and typed “Titanium.” Autocorrect approved. The voice disapproved.
“TITANUM.”
The discrepancy annoyed him. Spelling shouldn’t be the hill he died on, and yet the voice had planted a flag there. He searched anyway. Results bloomed: phones with titanium frames, watches that bragged about aerospace-grade alloys like they were going to escape Earth’s gravity by bench-pressing, wallets that promised to age with a patina of sophisticated manliness, water bottles that looked like they’d file restraining orders against fun. All sleek gray. All matte. All declaring themselves as artifacts of permanence in a world that couldn’t keep a streaming catalog the same for three weeks.
“BUY TITANUM.”
He closed the tab. He had bills. He had rent. He was not going to be the guy who bought a metal object to feel invulnerable. He had a perfectly functional phone that still loaded maps before he missed his exit. He had a watch that told time with numbers instead of pride.
Wednesday, the voice evolved. It learned timing. It pinged his skull right when his coworkers rolled past his desk with their lunch bragging and their new gadgets set on the table face-up like they’d arrived with dates. The newest one had that brushed look. The coworker flicked it in the light so it flashed. The phone, being plastic and glass, still somehow gleamed like pure superiority.
“Titanium frame,” the guy said, casually, which is the adverb people use when they’re desperate for you to store their information in a jealousy folder.
“TITANUM,” the voice breathed with reverence, which was embarrassing to hear from inside one’s own cortex.
He went for a walk after work to cool the brain and punish the voice by absorbing nature, which is a free thing everyone pretends they like. On the trail he passed a cyclist whose bike was conspicuously bare of paint. Raw metal shimmered like a boast. The cyclist inhaled with precision, the way you do when you own performance fabric. The voice hummed. Birds existed, but they did not have alloys and therefore contributed nothing.
At home he tried mindfulness. He sat on a cushion and let thoughts pass through like clouds, because that’s the belief system the app traded in. The voice did not pass. It parked. It idled. It turned up its own air conditioning and it fogged the windshield.
“BUY. TITANUM.”
Thursday, he booked a therapy appointment, which is what you do when you need a referee. He described the voice. He described the spelling. He described the way it seemed to lean on the period at the end like a finger on a trigger.
The therapist nodded, because nodding is included in the hourly rate. “Intrusive thoughts,” she said. “Cognitive defusion might help. When the thought arises, notice it. Label it. ‘I’m having the thought that I should buy Titanum.’ Then let it sit.”
He tried that. He sat. He watched his mind engineered like a mall. He labeled the thought. The thought adjusted its tie.
“I’m having the thought that I should—”
“BUY TITANUM.”
The therapist suggested breathing. He breathed. The voice continued without oxygen.
Friday, the algorithm caught up. His feeds turned gray and industrial. A guy with a beard and the wrist circumference of a bear unboxed a knife and whispered about grade 5 Ti like it was scandalous. An influencer in a loft with brick walls used a titanium spoon and moaned about conductivity. Every ad had a guy with a toolbox or a forest or both. The voice stopped pushing. The world volunteered.
He set up a content blocker, which is the digital equivalent of closing the curtains while leaving the door open. He blocked keywords: titanium, alloy, aerospace. He tried adding TITANUM in caps. The blocker blinked at him like, You sure? He was sure. The voice grazed the fence and grinned.
“BUY TITANUM.”
Saturday morning, he dreamed an Apple Store in a cathedral. High ceilings. Geniuses dressed in choir robes. Long tables of silver rectangles receiving incense. A Genius handed him a rectangle and sang the specs in Latin. He woke choking on the scent of citrus cleaner and holy water. He checked his bank account just to open his eyes fully. His balance sighed at him, which was rude, but accurate.
He tried sensible measures. He made a budget, which was a list of items that all failed to be Titanum. He opened a spreadsheet. The cells waited like a courtroom. Rent. Utilities. Groceries. Savings he pretended counted. Emergency fund that likely wasn’t for emergencies so much as for when capitalism forgot his name. He added a line item for Fun. It was bleak. The voice was unimpressed.
“BUY TITANUM.”
He put the word in the Notes app and stared at it, spelling it out like a curse, waiting for his perspective to snap. Nothing snapped. The word just sat there like a blunt instrument.
He cleaned his apartment for relief. This always extended his lifespan by roughly two hours of feeling like he had a grip. He culled old cords, dead batteries, the contents of a junk drawer that had developed its own sense of community. He held every object up and asked if it sparked joy or resentment or a need to apologize to it. He made a pile for donation. He put three items up for sale online, and, in a moment of predatory optimism, tagged them as “minimalism.” He told himself he was creating space.
This was true. For what, he didn’t specify.
By evening he found himself outside the mall, a place that promised weather and bathrooms and emotional instruction. He told himself he would people-watch, which meant observing strangers like a nature documentary but with worse hair. He walked past windows. Slick metal. Gray wool. Thin handsome mannequins who had never needed a power strip in their lives. Every store had a central artifact meant to anchor the entire brand identity and extract three paychecks. He felt targeted, which was accurate.
He found the tech store by following the scent of warm plastic. Inside, tables lay out devices as if fresh from a litter. He picked up a phone with that brushed-metal look and a smooth cold that wanted him. It wanted his face. It wanted to be smudged by him specifically. The sales associate glided over, a person with symmetrical teeth and the patience of a saint whose life depended on quota.
“Are you upgrading?” the associate asked.
“Thinking,” he said, which was a lie. He wasn’t thinking. He was narrating the performance of a thinking person while the voice inside him did laps with a victory flag.
“TITANUM,” the voice said, affectionate now, almost gentle, the way a con artist goes soft before the final pitch.
He put the device down, an act of heroism that would never be recognized by anyone. He walked out. He drove home. He didn’t buy. He woke up Sunday jittery like a raccoon that had read a cookbook.
The voice quieted. That was worse. Silence meant strategy. It let him pour cereal in peace and then nudged his elbow at the sink so he chipped a bowl. Tiny chip, nothing tragic, a line like a fault in a continent. The voice watched.
By afternoon he was on the stupidest search page in the universe, typing the stupidest misspelled word: TITANUM. He clicked through to the swamp of third-party sellers. He found a product with a name that read like it had been assembled by a blender: TITANUM PRO MAX ULTRA+ ELITE SERIES. The photo showed a mug. Or a lantern. Or a flashlight that wanted to be a sculpture. The description promised aerospace-grade construction and revolutionary design and the kind of lifestyle where you were never sticky. It cost too much for a cup and too little for a luxury item, which is the price point where shame lives.
He stared. He could feel the shape of relief on the other side, like stepping into a shoe that looked wrong but contained your foot.
He added it to cart. He filled in the address he’d filled in a hundred times. The site asked for a subscription to their newsletter, which had the needy energy of a magician’s assistant asking you to clap. He unchecked the box. He checked out.
The confirmation email arrived with a subject line that used exclamation points with the desperation of a birthday clown. The voice exhaled, a hiss of satisfaction.
“Good,” it said, softer. “Good. BUY TITANUM.”
“It’s bought,” he said to no one. “It’s done.”
The voice sat in the back of his mind and put its feet up on his hippocampus. It dozed.
He felt absurd and light and tragic all at once. He had become the type of person who surrendered to a typographical error. He walked around his living room like it was a new apartment. He opened the fridge and stared at the moral vacuum that is a half-squeezed bottle of mustard and said out loud, “I did it,” just to hear proof. His mouth formed the words like they tasted like something.
On Tuesday the package arrived. The box was gray. Of course the box was gray. The tape had a logo in a font that was trying to be military and failed at letters instead. He sliced it open. Inside, nestled in crumpled paper like a newborn in a nest built from disappointment, sat a cup.
It was a cup. Not a goblet, not a chalice, not a device. A cup with a lid. It had TITANUM printed on the side in stern block letters. It weighed more than something that holds fluids should. He picked it up. It cooled his hand. It did not confer status. It did not nudge him one inch closer to immortality. It would, best case scenario, keep coffee warm for thirty minutes longer than a regular cup and develop scratches that looked like he had lived.
He held it up to the light and waited to feel powerful. The light was indifferent. The room stayed the room. The voice—quiet now—made one last push.
“Nice,” it said, grudgingly. “Good. You bought. You did it.”
He poured coffee into the cup. He took a sip. It tasted like coffee, a beverage notable for making the same promises as every product while delivering the only honest one: you will feel less tired for a bit and then more tired.
The voice rolled over and went to sleep.
And then, from somewhere else in the mental apartment, a new neighbor cleared its throat. It had a reedy tone, like a subscription therapist.
“SUBSCRIBE YEARLY.”
He stared at the cup. It stared back with the confidence of an object that knows you just folded. He laughed, once, because the only other option was to join a commune.
He set the cup down carefully, like it might explode and redecorate his floor with a lifestyle blog. He opened his laptop again because of course he did. He found himself at the same blank rectangle that had started this mess. He opened a new spreadsheet and named it: Purchases That Were Supposed To Fix Me. Column A: Item. Column B: Cost. Column C: Promised. Column D: Delivered. Column E: Regret. He typed TITANUM CUP in the first row and filled the cells with the accuracy of a witness.
Item: TITANUM CUP. Cost: Too Much. Promised: Durability, Masculinity, Quiet Superiority, Hot Coffee Forever, Freedom From Decay. Delivered: A Cup. Regret: Medium-Low, which felt honest. He had known worse.
He sipped again. Still coffee. Still him. The world: unchanged. His brain: a mall with a new kiosk. He waited for the vendor to wave a sample in his face and tell him it would exfoliate his soul. He would probably accept. That’s the game. You are the field. The players run over you, and you are expected to be grateful for the divots.
He went for a walk that evening and saw the cyclist again, or a clone. Same bare metal bike. Same performance fabric. He nodded. The cyclist nodded back with the benevolence of someone whose identity had been successfully outsourced to an alloy. The voice muttered in its sleep. The new voice whispered about annual billing for something with a meaningless logo.
He returned home. He washed the cup as if it were a ritual that made the day tidy. He set it on the counter and looked at the print. TITANUM. No second “i.” A defect that had somehow strolled into his life wearing a crown.
He accepted it. This is what he had purchased: relief from a word, a pause in a chant. He had bought quiet. It would expire. It always expires. When it did, there would be another word waiting, freshly misspelled, already in uppercase, warmed up and stretching.
For now, he put the cup in the cabinet with the other cups that had won lesser battles. He sat on the couch. He didn’t feel better. He didn’t feel worse. He felt like a person who had caved—a person with a cup heavy enough to anchor a small boat.
In the corner of his mind, the period at the end of TITANUM dimmed like a bedside lamp. He could hear traffic outside, and his own breath, and the subscription voice trying on different intonations in the mirror of his skull. He took another sip of regular, mortal coffee, and let the whole glorious stupidity of it settle where it belonged.
Anonjohn20
Pen holding member
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One day you may be forced to roast yourself. LOL JK
Navillus
The Humble Cat
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No! That’s why fake catgirl chimeras are like that! Normal catgirls are different~ you see normal cats use their whiskers to unlock a sense… this ability allows them to sense everything around them with scary precision… so imagine that but instead of it being limited to the room you’re in and maybe a bit outside of it… you can sense everything within about 10,000 feet of you at all times no matter what… you know when even a blade of grass sways in the wind or how every single but within that radius is moving and will move within the next few seconds… this sense never stops even while sleepy… so every catgirl is constantly doing calculations that would put a super computer to shame… and the most important part… 10,000 feet is the bare minimum for a true catgirl… but a good few of us can sense everything within 100 to 30,000 miles of us… if one of those grafted monsters had even a fraction of this ability they’re brains would quite literally melt-nyah.
JayMark
It's Not Easy Being Nobody, But Somebody Has To.
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I might be being sensed by a catgirl right now!
Which effectively means at the upper ranges you can sense the entire Earth
Anonjohn20
Pen holding member
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An important skill to avoid the morbidly obese weebs,
Woolen_Monkey
Woolen
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It was a inside job... [Redacted]
JayMark
It's Not Easy Being Nobody, But Somebody Has To.
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Thank God. Please make sure to take fresh air breaks whenever you can and ventilate as much as you're allowed.
TITANUM: I see what you did there.
I didn't miss the gorilla in the psych class. But I missed that spelling mistake. Good Job.
Last edited:
SRB
:Simple Russian Boi:
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Go sleep then.