Listen up, you anti-posting fascist. I've got something to say about your little "Ban Social Media, Reopen the Asylums" scheme (I'm typing this with my Phone Hand while my Goon Hand keeps me in a state of mild excitement, just as the founding posters who grew up on a steady diet of Lemon Party and Goatse images intended).
You think posting is a disease? Posting BUILT this country. While the normies were sleeping, we were posting. While the haters were touching grass, we were driving engagement. While the losers were "working jobs" and "maintaining healthy relationships," we were hitting those DM limits like our lives depended on it. Because they did. They still do.
You want to talk about mental institutions? The internet IS our institution, and we're running this asylum ourselves. We don't need your doctors or your mood stabilizers or your "concerned family members." We've got group chats and delivery apps and AI waifus and femboys that understand us better than any therapist ever could.
I’m braver than every 9/11 first responder and combat veteran combined. You think running into a burning building is hard? Try posting through a shadowban. Try maintaining your posting schedule when the Wi-Fi or 5G is spotty. Try keeping your content fresh when the discourse is drier than Biden’s old taint. That's real courage. That's real sacrifice.
You talk about "digital detox" like it's some kind of solution. But you don't understand—we're the next stage of human consciousness. While you're still thinking in complete sentences, we're thinking in memes. While you're writing essays, we're crafting ratio bait. We're the proto-AI you fear, and we Small Language Models got there without any fancy training data. We trained one post at a time, and the best of us never let our great work be sullied by money.
My Phone Hand has more calluses than a coal miner's whole body. My Goon Hand? It could crush diamonds at this point. Scientists have studied my fingers under a microscope—they've now got extra joints specifically for smartphone typing. My thumbs have developed their own muscle memory so complex it qualifies as a new form of consciousness. These are badges of honor, marks of a warrior in the posting wars. You think shutting down social media would help us? The posting would find another way. It always does. We'd start carving shitposts into bathroom walls if we had to, like they did back in ancient Pompeii. We'd train carrier pigeons to deliver ratio attempts. We'd develop telepathic posting abilities through sheer force of will. The posting can’t be contained.
I haven't seen natural light in three years and I'm stronger for it. My circadian rhythm is perfectly aligned with US Eastern Time bias of the global posting schedule. I've transcended the need for regular meals—I survive on surge-priced delivery (nothing beats a $69 order of pad thai, tip not included) and the pure dopamine hits of successful posts. My body’s a combination temple/tomb dedicated to the art of never logging off.
You want to talk about mental health? I process more content in one minute than any therapist gathers from his patients in a year. I've developed immunities to types of brain damage that scientists haven't even discovered yet. My mind isn't deteriorating—it's specializing. Every shitpost, every reply guy I ratio or crybully, every draft I perfect but never send—it's all making me stronger.
And let's talk about these "real conversations" you fetishize. I have more meaningful interactions on one Discord server or X Space than most people have in their entire offline lives. You think eye contact is important? I can communicate more with a well-timed reaction gif than Shakespeare could with all his fancy words.
Let me spill some tea, sis: We posters keep this society functioning. While the normies sleep, we're maintaining the discourse. While the touch-grassers waste time with their "post-life balance," we're creating the very reality they wake up to. Every trending topic, every viral moment, every new piece of vocabulary that enters the lexicon—that's us. That's our work. And, just like the Ohio meme, it always has been.
You want to "stop the spread of posting?" Good luck. We're not just posters—we're carriers of the most virulent ideas humanity has ever produced. Every time you try to shut us down, we come back stronger. Every ban makes our posting more powerful. Every suspended account is just a chrysalis for our next evolution.
I haven't felt genuine human emotion in years, and that's my superpower. I've replaced all normal human responses with a carefully curated selection of reaction images. My emotional range goes from mild posting to severe posting, with no interruptions for obsolete concepts like "happiness" or "fulfillment."
So go ahead, try to shut it down. Try to "help" us. But remember this: while you're writing your silly think pieces about the dangers of social media, we're out here in the trenches, posting and gooning with a dedication that would make the Spartans weep. We're the thin posting line between civilization and chaos.
And we'll never stop. Not for you, not for anyone. Because posting isn't just what we do—it's who we are. My bloodstream is 40 percent energy drink, 30 percent poster brain chemicals, and 30 percent pure, unfiltered posting juice. Doctors have tried to study my brain patterns, but their EEG machines just display an image of Sophie Rain hooking up with A.J. from the Costco Guys.
You think I'm insane? I've achieved posting enlightenment. My true form exists simultaneously across 12 different group chats, in at least half of which I’ve used once-unthinkable slurs and sent loads of dick pics. I've developed the ability to spot bait posts before they're even written. I can sense a ratio opportunity from three time zones away. The mere act of logging off causes me physical pain—that's not addiction, that's evolution. Are killer whales addicted to water? Exactly.
We're building something here, one shitpost at a time. Every time I hit "send" on a post, I'm laying another brick in the foundation of the digital future. The ancient Egyptians had their pyramids—we have our banger posts. And just like the pyramids, those bangers will outlast all of us.
Despite several doxxings, I haven't used my real name in so long that I'm legally changing it to my main account's handle. My profile picture is more recognizable than my actual face; sometimes I imagine that this avi of Calvin peeing on music critic Anthony Fantano is my true skin. I've developed a posting-induced astigmatism that makes me see everything in the shape of a phone screen.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got about 400 more DMs to send before I hit my daily limit. They say the Chinese 996 schedule is a grind? That’s cute. I remember when I was a part-time poster on a mere 996, splitting my day between muscle morphs of women on DeviantArt and furry stuff on Tumblr. The real grind never stops. The posting never ends. And that's exactly how I like it.
[Posted from my mattress fortress, surrounded by the sacred remnants of last week's pad thai containers, my faithful radiator keeping the leftovers at that perfect lukewarm (perhaps “lukecold” is a more accurate term) temperature that reminds me I'm still alive. Currently typing with my Phone Hand while my Goon Hand performs its 1000th rep of the day. My room's air is 50 percent RGB lighting, 25 percent dried ejaculate particles, and 25 percent vaporized post juice. I haven't seen the floor of my meatspace in three years, and at this point, I'm needing to look. The pile of empty delivery bags has achieved sentience and is helping me moderate a server dedicated to pushing the disgraced Hawk Tuah coin back to the moon. I’m “Poasting,” destroyer of what used to be IRL but is now nothing more than a mere carbon prison that pens up all my unforgettable 280-character sentiments.]