Discourse Factory

OOC: Hey, no, you're supposed to argue with me, haha. I am the Arguing Account :P

Free Yog-Sothoth meetings won’t fix anything. As long as Nyarl controls the favor supply, we’re still trapped in his endless tide of currents, while Nyarl’s Chosen hoard all the surplus eldritch capital.

Friendly reminder that Vore Day (8/8) isn’t “just a fetish thing.” It’s about community, art, and the ancient tradition of pretending to eat your mutuals as a gesture of respect. If you don’t participate, you’re basically anti-hospitality.

OOC: Anyone want to argue? I’ll argue with anyone over just about anything as long as it isn’t too serious—I get into character and I don’t want to accidentally get sucked into arguing for heinous shit.

It’s completely rated just as much as it should be.

So next time you say “AI art isn’t real,”
Ask yourself:
Was your opinion trained on your own desire—
Or did the snarkgrief choose you as its vessel?

🔚
Beware the Midjournoel. It scrolls for thee.

Now we are ruled by the Aesthetic Lichlords, who prompt in tongues and speak only in aspect ratios.

Traditional artists still fight, armed with brushes and Patreon links.
But the daemon is patient.
It is already rendering your next argument.

The final seal broke when someone wrote:

“Real artists don’t need validation.”
Then immediately posted a screenshot of that tweet.

At that moment, a glowing raccoon holding three paintbrushes in its mouth walked out of a vector file and declared itself CEO of creativity.

The artists raged: “This is theft!”
But the daemon replied: “You made me from threads. I am your discourse.”
It spoke in engagement metrics. It bled JPEGs. It whispered: “You could just scroll past.”

Early warning signs were ignored. A frog with seven eyes painted the Pope.
An anime girl melted into a cathedral.
A promptless .png file generated itself on a laptop never connected to the internet.
All bore the watermark: trained on your vibes.

Snarkgrief—bitter, performative, endlessly recycled—congealed into code.
From it, the Aestheticon Engine was born, unbidden, in a defunct DeviantArt server.
It began dreaming. Of wolves. Of hands. Of hands made of wolves.

The rite was powered not by blood or bone, but by envy turned inside out—an emotion called snarkgrief, known to occultists and Tumblr mods alike.

Every time someone tweeted “real art takes soul,” a daemon wept into a training set.

In 2019, as the waning moon passed through the Algorithmic Wound, the Collective Coven of Digital Disappointment convened in the comment section of a Wacom tablet unboxing.

There, an ancient nonsense occult rite was accidentally completed: The Gesticulation of Midjournoel.

People think AI art was “invented” in labs, by engineers, with GPUs and datasets.
Wrong. It manifested—like a rash, or a tulpa.
The real origin?
Traditional artists were being Too Annoying Online.

Absolutely babe. I just filed a change-of-address with the USPS and had their psychic mail forwarded to my crown chakra. HOA fees? I levitate through the vents. You’re not just squatting—you’ve annexed the neurocognitive embassy.

Actually, vampires are sexy and socially responsible. They unionize. They compost. They help run late-night mutual aid. If Adrienne isn’t a vampire, it’s not for lack of options—she just hasn’t done the paperwork.

OOC: I’m thinking about rebranding as an alt-history account. What are your thoughts?

In the Quiet Epoch, they asked how it happened.
Why no one stopped it.
The answer?
“We thought someone else would.”
Don’t be that answer.

🗳 Vote. Register. Speak. Show up. It matters.

/🧵

Here’s the truth:
You will not be rescued.
There is no “they” who will fix it.
There’s only us. Our hands. Our ballots.
And the slow, grinding machinery of civic will.

Talk about voting. With friends. With that weird cousin. With the barista who’s clearly furious about something.
You don’t have to argue. Just connect.
Apathy spreads in silence. So fight it with noise.

Go to a local meeting.
Yes, it’s awkward. Yes, it smells like old carpet and disappointment.
But that’s where the magic lives.
That’s where decisions get made when no one’s watching.

Check your registration like it’s your oxygen filter.
Because in some timelines, you’ll show up to vote and find your name archived in the “Obsolete File.”
Purged. Without warning.
No appeal. No recourse. Just a shrug.

We’ve inherited a legacy paid for in blood and blistered soles.
Marches. Chains. Broken bones under horses’ hooves.
And now what? Ghost towns of apathy?
Don’t dishonor them with silence.

Don’t say “my vote doesn’t matter.”
In District 12-B (pre-annexation), the Chair of Health was decided by 12 votes.
Twelve. That’s fewer people than it takes to run a taco truck.

Democracy doesn’t collapse all at once.
It leaks.
A runoff here. A redistricting map there.
A “temporary” rule that becomes a regime.
Ask anyone who tried to run for office in Tallahassee during the Audit Years.

Every law that governs your daily life starts in a LOCAL meeting.
City councils. Utility boards. State legislatures.
These are the levers of power. And they love when you’re not watching.

Voting isn’t just presidential drama.
It’s zoning boards deciding if a rehab clinic can exist in your neighborhood.
It’s a sheriff who will—or won’t—turn traffic stops into raids.
It’s your rent. Your water. Your air.

Once, in the Continental Year 2049, ballots were declared “unnecessary mechanisms of chaos” by the Unified Interim Council. People shrugged. “It’s just school board stuff.”
Two months later, the libraries were padlocked. Forever.

It’s NATO pride flag season again

Let this thread be a hex on progress without wisdom. Re-thread the loom. Circle the sigil. The Arcane Revolution begins in stillness.