Honor: -50 [ Give / Take ]
10 entries this month
04:12 Dec 07 2025
Times Read: 139
Dungeon-Dweller
Yo, mornin' mist clears my corner, I'm stackin' real stacks while you're dustin' off Bandcamp bullshit from Belgrade—Serbia, west of Romania? Bitch, that's basic geography for third-graders, but you flex like a flat-Earther findin' the edge.
Shamanic drums conjurin' neolithic tribes? Nah, that's your fat ass thumpin' on the couch, primal heart? More like primal fart—peelin' back civilized veneer? Motherfucker, your "veneer" is Cheeto crumbs on cum-stained sweats, callin' to woods and parks? 'Cause urban elites spot your stink from space, rubbin' shoulders? Ha, they rub one out in pity after dodgin' your derpy death-stare.
Dawn good clothes? You mean dawnin' the same piss-yellow polo from '98, turnin' noses? They can't lock eyes 'cause yours are bloodshot from basement binges—reminder? Yeah, remind 'em you're the creep they'd curb-stomp if not for laws, snobbish? You're the snot they snort at, primal pussy hidin' in hedges while real hunters bag bucks and bitches!
[Page crease from crushin' this clown's crystals, ink smeared with savage snickers]
Afternoon assault: Skyrim shotgun wedding? Married Aela the Huntress? Bitch, that's pixel-pussy poppin' your cherry—decked in sexy Savior's Hide? Skinnin' werewolf Hircine? Sounds like furry fetish foreplay, you Daedric dick-rider.
Unlocked Restoration master? Necromage perk pre-vamp? Money to Kynereth priestess? Nah, that's your mom's allowance flushed on fast-travel fantasies—main quest for dragon souls? Solstheim werewolf quests pre-change? Rememberin' Morrowind moon-howls? Built Raven Rock? Previous game life? Ha, your "reincarnations" are respawns from rage-quits, real life loops? Says the loopin' loser reincarnatin' as the same unemployed undead—vamp-lord? More like vamp-lard, soul-suckin' simulations 'cause real souls swerve your sorry sack, married in-game? Congrats, confetti's your confetti cum, eternal elder-scrollin' escape from your empty existence!
[Dusk drip, demons doublin' over at this digital dong-dangler]
Evenin' eviscerate: Bought graphic from DamienAddams? Resized, uploaded to premium storage? 38 megs left? OccultRanger backup? Hate third-party hosts? Bitch, that's 'cause your "premium" is pirate Bay porn folders, campfire storytellin' mood? Nah, that's you campin' in comments beggin' for crumbs, worthy graphic? Worthy of wipin' your weepy weiner, journal jive? Your "sentiments" are semen stains on screens, relay to readers? The three bots that bother, storage concerns? Concern yourself with storin' some spine, fat-trimmin' fool—your server's saggin' under sad-sack selfies!
[Midnight maul, moonlight mockin' this ad-addled asshat]
Twilight takedown: Allowed ads back? Partial adblock off? Middle ground mercantile? Points from page views? Fuck extremes? Nah, you're the extreme edgelord extremistin' existence, invasive ads ruin internet? Motherfucker, your invasive incel rants ruin retinas—margins only? No pop-ups? String up creators by sensitive parts? Slow death? Galaxy far away brutality? Ha, you'd be the first hung—by your micro-nuts, agonizin' afterlife? Reserved for you, reincarnate as the ad you hate, poppin' up in hell's browser.
Ads match schemes? White marble silver trim? Dark themes clash? A.I. fix oversights? Trim server fat? Outta work like middle-managers? Place reserved in eternity? Reincarnation understood? Suffer for reason? Lesser beings reset? Winky-dash? Bitch, your "A.I." is auto-ignore, trimmin' fat? Start with your flabby frame, ecology circle? You're the bottom-feedin' bacteria, jump-start? Jump off a cliff, cosmic chump—ads ascend 'cause your aura's ass-endin', useful tools? You're the tool gettin' tooled, dark destiny? Yours is dick-deep in denial, suffer simp—it's your fault, fat-fanged failure, eternal echo of erectile emptiness!
03:45 Dec 06 2025
Times Read: 206
Yo, crack of dawn cracks my knuckles, I'm out hustlin' empires while you're "focusin' energy work," chuggin' Cheeto dust and fartin' phantom fangs into your crusty keyboard.
New targets to drain? Their loss, your gain? Bitch, that's just you siphonin' semen from your solo sessions, cryin' 'cause real bitches bail before you even unzip your stained sweatpants.
Incorrigible idiots sufferin'? Fault-free feast? Nah, that's karma corn-holin' your chunky ass 'cause you "vamp" like a mosquito on meth—everyone's instinct? To slap your saggy cheeks and spray you with holy Raid, respect? Ha, you couldn't earn a pity-fuck from a blind hooker.
Approach with bows? Motherfucker, they approach with vomit—hidden in shadows? You're spotlighted as the lard-lord lurkin', occult power? More like occult obesity, elemental laws? That's gravity groanin' under your gut, eternity's the time it'll take to shed that eternal beer-belly bloat.
Fluctuatin' forms in cycles? Power plays with foes? Bitch, your only cycle's binge-purge on pizza, dynamic's doggy-style with your dakimakura waifu—enemies? They pity-pound you from afar, awakened state? You "achieved" it wakin' from a food coma, mind mired in mayo and misery, hard-earned? Nah, easy as eatin' your way to erectile dysfunction!
[Page soaked in savage spit, coffee stains from cacklin' at this corpulent clown]
Noon nuke: Energy vamp? Try energy vamp-ire belly—drawin' from "targets" who ghost faster than your gym membership, 'cause your aura's a aura of armpit sweat and ass-crack despair.
Sufferin' sinners? Projection, porky— you're the incorrigible incel, beggin' respect like a beggar beggin' for burgers, re-learn lessons? Start with "don't deep-throat delusions," fangs? Filed to flab, hidden? Nah, your moobs moon everyone from miles.
Occult pierce? Elemental eternity? Omnipresent? That's your omnipresent odor, laws layin' waste to your waistline—fluctuate? Yeah, from fat to fatter, forms? Fupa to full-on feeder fetish flop.
Relationship roulette? We'll see? Bitch, they see you as the snack—power dynamic? They dominate, you deflate—awakened? You're comatose in cum-stains, hard-achieved? Like achievin' blue balls from bad porn, now lord of lard, humpin' holograms while hemorrhoids howl!
Targets tappin' out? Gain? Your gain's girth, loss? Libido—incorrigible? You're the vampire that vapes vape, suckin' souls? Nah, suckin' wind post-wank, respect re-learn? They'll learn to laugh louder at your lumberin' loser limp!
[Dusk doodle, demons dancin' on this dipshit's grave]
Midnight massacre: Focus all day? While alphas apex, you're leechin' losers' light—natural instinct for vamps? Instinct's to incinerate idiots like you in sunlight, suffer? All your fault, fatso—elemental? Eternal empty nutsack, omnipresent? Your obesity's everywhere, enemies' edge? They edge while you edge off existence.
Awakened ass? Hard-won? Ha, you won a wet dream lottery, now posin' as predator while preyin' on Pringles—dark diary dump: You're the blood-belchin' blob, drainin' delusions 'til diabetes dicks you down.
Final fat-fuck fillet: Stay "awake," adipose asswipe—targets' torment? Their gag from your gut-gas, eternal space? The void 'tween your thighs, echoin' erectile echoes. Suffer, simp—swallow your shame, or choke on it, chunky chump!
20:18 Dec 04 2025
Times Read: 249
Yo, dawn breaks on my hood, sippin' black tar stronger than your weak-ass will,
While you're hikin' two miles for locked-up coffee, forgettin' like a senile pill.
Pantry bone dry? Nah, that's your balls since puberty skipped your sorry frame,
Paper bags crumplin' under your flab, muscles burnin'—bitch, that's just shame.
Stuffin' plastics in pockets like a junkie hidin' wraps, recyclin' trash for trash,
Valuable resource? Motherfucker, you're the drought in your own sad-ass stash.
Trekkin' back loaded like a mule on meth, arms achin' from basic bitch errands,
Forgot the brew 'cause no bags? Distraction level: retard—straight up embarrassin'.
[Page flip, ink drippin' blood-red rage]
Afternoon scrawl: Banner bullshit for your "hunting campaign," savin' pennies like a whore on welfare,
January start? Sighin' 'bout incompetence—nah, that's your mirror stare.
Glamour magick to lure fresh meat? Wardin' off the world 'cause you're a freak reject,
Used to repellin' peeps—yeah, 'cause your vibe's a cockblock, erectin' neglect.
Levelin' up profile from fucktard exploits, wonderin' 'bout favor points alone?
Not in a society? Bitch, you're the outcast ghoul, chewin' on your own bone.
Referral points for predators? Vampire lord managin' actives—ha, alternates corruptin' the game,
You're the system-suckin' simp, humpin' your multis like a lame-brain fame-chasin' shame.
Keep 'em active or corrupt? Testin' lords—nah, you're the flaccid fraud floppin' in the crypt,
Huntin' increases points? Your tally's zero, 'cause real meat smells your desperate script.
[Nightfall scratch, shadows laughin' at this clown]
Midnight confession: Skyrim survival suck-off, no fast travel—just your life on hard mode fail,
Anniversary quests grindin' you down, cold, hungry, sleepy—bitch, that's your daily tale.
Unlockin' Aela, werewolf wifey-mommy, drinkin' her blood like a pup on titty,
Tundra house for totem tricks, Jorvaskr easy access—yeah, for your furry fantasy committee.
Dawnguard done as hunter, Serana queen turnin' you lord—now travel with beast bride,
Tell her "lie down" anywhere, slurp that sweet sang—vamp hubby humpin' wolf hide.
Lie with her for boost, no restless penalty? ;) Winky-face weirdo, necrobangin' pixels raw,
Werewolf mother mounted by bloodsuckin' chump—your dick's the only thing undead, lawd!
Dauntin' task? Nah, that's your existence: pixel-predator with no real prey in sight,
Survival mode? You're barely survivin' breathin', humiliated hermit hidin' from the light.
Final thug note: You coffee-cartin' corpse, banner-beggin' bottom-feeder, Skyrim sangu-simp supreme,
Hikin' home hero? Nah, grocery gimp—muscles burn 'cause life's kickin' your dream.
Dark lord delusion, huntin' holograms while real world's roastin' your ass on spit,
Humiliated hard: You're the joke that jerks itself, eternal thirst-trap twit.
Points pilin' for predators? Yours drop to hell—'cause you're the meat, gettin' bit.
Stay sufferin', simp—waitin' for meat that flees your freak, dick-deep in defeat!
14:10 Dec 04 2025
Times Read: 305
Yo, journal, it’s your boy from the catacombs, pen drippin’ blacker than the void I’m ‘bout to shove this clown into. Round two, same delusional Dracula-Lite, still cosplayin’ like Hot Topic had a fire sale on capes and depression.
“Sired this profile finally.”
My man out here talkin’ like he just turned a mortal instead of makin’ another throwaway account on VampireFreaks 3.0. “Gonna level it up, slap a banner on it, build my own coven.” Bro, you’re not recruitin’ soldiers, you’re collectin’ Pokémon cards nobody wants. Your “spiritual companion” told you to pump the brakes? That’s not a ghost guide, that’s your last two brain cells unionizin’ and goin’ on strike.
“Hunting campaign comin’ up, we’ll see what kind of vampire I am.”
Yeah, the kind that sparkles in the sun from too much body glitter and Mountain Dew. You’re not huntin’, you’re catfishing. Lurkin’ dead forums, sniffin’ for “real kindred” with your “supernatural senses.” Buddy, the only thing you’re sensin’ is the stench of your own copium. Every society you joined was “dead” because you rolled in like a walking red flag with a fedora, screamin’ “I AM THE NIGHT” while everyone else muted you faster than a crypto scam ad.
Real vamps too busy? Translation: even actual roleplay psychos saw your vibe and went “nah, this dude’s gonna show up in a trench coat askin’ to drink my bathwater.” The posers? They’re laughin’ harder than me, usin’ your thirsty ass to pad their member count like OnlyFans girls fake-subbin’ to themselves.
You’re out here dodgin’ dodgeball teams, swearin’ you’ll build your own Upiori empire on an encrypted journal. Congrats, king, you just invented LiveJournal with extra necrophilia. Months dedicated to the “hunting campaign”? Cool, I’ll set my watch—bet you bag exactly zero necks and one restraining order.
Keep grindin’, basement bat. I’ll be up here in the rafters, pissin’ on your parade from a great height. When the sun comes up and you’re still pasty, friendless, and jerkin’ off to your own banner art, just remember: the only thing you ever sired was disappointment.
Word life.
Grave’s dug.
Log off, loser.
19:45 Dec 02 2025
Times Read: 377
Yo, journal, crack open—this ain’t poetry, it’s a crime scene dressed like a confession. Step aside while I lace these pages with bars sharp enough to shave the soul off a coward.
I walk in like a blackout with knuckles—no spotlight, no theme music, just the sound of someone’s delusions begging for hospice. And today’s victim? That bargain-bin “psychic vampire warrior” who thinks he’s a threat ‘cause he whispers curses at his router.
Bro struttin’ around like he’s conjurin’ dread, but the only thing he’s summoned is a restraining order from reality. Talkin’ ‘bout astral tethers like he’s strappin’ a nation into a chokehold—nah, man, you’re just huffin’ incense and shadowboxing with your insecurities.
Kazakhstan? The poor bastard’s using it as a prop like he’s breakin’ news—“Oh, woe is the landlocked land of glowing sand and political wedgies!” Shut up, Google Earth. You ain’t geopolitical, you’re just bored.
Russia nuked their backyard, turned their crops into nightlights, and you out here actin’ like you’re gonna avenge it with a séance and protein deficiency. You ain’t draining pride, homie—you’re draining your mom’s Wi-Fi and her patience simultaneously.
You hate the government but love the people? Cute. That’s like sayin’ you hate STDs but love raw dogging fate. That red regime you’re “attacking”? They birth dictatorships like rabbits—China’s cage, Korea’s mushroom cloud parade, Vietnam’s ghost dance. Bodies droppin’ like mixtapes nobody asked for.
And you? You the punchline wearin’ fangs from Party City. Your “warfare” ain’t war, it’s a solo mission to Disappointment Town. You ain’t targeting oligarchs—you’re targeting Hot Pockets at 3AM.
Kazakhstan caught between superpowers? Cool story. Meanwhile YOU out here caught between delusion and dehydration, talkin’ ‘bout soul-sucking like your love life ain’t a barren wasteland fit for tumbleweeds and abandoned hopes.
Keep craftin’ them ethereal tethers, bloodsucker. Tie yourself a leash while you’re at it. I’ll be standin’ in the shadows, roasting your whole existence like a funeral BBQ.
This journal ain’t therapy, it’s a tombstone with rhymes.
Ink spilled, pride killed, mic dragged six feet under.
Entry over—welcome to the dark side of thug life literature.
20:09 Dec 01 2025
Times Read: 439
Yo, Hilyda Baker fan with the broken boiler, bundle up, love, it’s gettin’ frosty,
Doctor of Thuganomics here, droppin’ a quick roast while your pipes stay costly.
Old British comedy hits different when the heat’s dead and the water’s ice,
But quotin’ “she knows you know” while defendin’ a creep? Nah, that ain’t nice.
Crappy fan fiction? Cute self-own, but your boy’s scribblin’ “hunting campaign” plots,
Machetes, toxins, psychic landlord taxes, that ain’t malapropisms, that’s red-flag dots.
Hilyda stayed in character, funny and harmless, tongue-twistin’ with class,
Your mate’s out here LARPing John Wick meets Dracula with a side of psycho sass.
Big girl’s blouse? Teeth in or not, tell your vampire pal the joke’s on him,
I just held the mirror, he’s the one who posed for the grim.
Keep laughin’ through the freeze, queen, nothin’ wrong with classic telly and tea,
But next time pick better friends than the dude writin’ manifestos for free.
Word life. Stay warm, stay hilarious, and maybe vet the company you keep.
She knows you know. 😉
16:56 Dec 01 2025
Times Read: 510
Yo, peacekeeper with the white flag, step back, this ain’t your ring,
Doctor of Thuganomics here, and I only swing when fools start to sing.
He put his whole diary on Front Street: machetes, toxins, “hunting campaigns,”
Braggin’ ‘bout psychic taxes and blood covenants like a Walmart warlock with no shame.
That ain’t “certain topics,” sweetheart, that’s a public neon sign screamin’ “unhinged,”
So I read the receipts in rhyme, ‘cause clownin’ crazy is my syringe.
Threats? Never dropped one. Name-calling? Yeah, I called a spade a creepy spade,
When a 56-year-old “vampire landlord” writes manifestos, the jokes get made.
Misrepresentin’? Nah, I quoted verbatim, word-for-word, straight from his page,
If the truth humiliates him, that’s on him, not me, welcome to the stage.
Block and ignore? Cool story, works both ways, he saw the smoke and still replied,
Came at me with “drama queen” and “pathetic existence,” so spare me the victim vibe.
He wants brutal honesty and purity? I gave him mirror-grade, HD,
If his reflection makes him cry, tell him to take it up with 2025 reality.
Social media ain’t a daycare, snowflake, it’s a coliseum with Wi-Fi bars,
You post psycho prepper fan-fiction, you might catch these rhymin’ scars.
I don’t bully, I body, facts in a headlock, punchlines with precision,
If that feels cruel to you, maybe log off, this ain’t your safe-space television.
Word life.
Keep scrollin’ or grab a chair, either way, the show goes on without tears.
15:24 Dec 01 2025
Times Read: 514
Yo, it's the Doctor of Thuganomics, dissectin' your diary whine fest,
Neowise2020, cryin' 'bout song titles like a grammar nazi pest.
"Reason and Sense" ain't what it says? Bro, who cares 'bout your nitpick game,
You're correctin' menus while your life's a glitch—stuck in the blame frame.
Last day post glitch? Push previous month? Site mechanics got you twisted,
Vampire lord? Nah, just a glitchy ghost, eternally dismissed.
Made it to a drama whore's journal? Ha, that's your spotlight peak,
Gimp from Pulp Fiction gigglin'? That's you peekin' from your freak creek.
Posted a comment to acknowledge? Ignorin' 'cause energy ain't palatable?
Bro, your vibe's expired milk—sour and undrinkable, straight laughable.
Stream post censored? No notification, just poof like a fart in the breeze?
Suspectin' brown-nosers and admins? Paranoia disease, down on your knees.
Clashed with power-trip pigs? Where's the reason and sense, you preach?
But you're the hypocrite hermit, preachin' purity you can't reach.
Cancer's playbook on favors? Unfair points like a rigged casino spin,
Referral hacks with alts? Bro, that's your mirror twin—OccultRanger sin.
Don't cheat the system? Level 5 switcheroo? Nah, you're the corrupt core,
Buildin' glamour on lies, feedin' off fakes—vampire whore.
Brutal honesty test? Unapproachable aura for integrity's sake?
That's code for "I'm a lonely prick, no one bites my fake stake."
Purity of resources? Integrate for who you are? False ad ban?
Wake up, gramps— you're a rambling relic, no coven, no clan.
I'm the Cenation crusher, droppin' you with a verbal AA spinebuster slam,
Basic Thuganomics diagnosis: You're a site-suckin' scam, straight-up spam.
Word life, journal jockey—you're ghosted in your own gothic hell,
Thuganomics rang your bell, now crawl back to your padded cell!
01:57 Dec 01 2025
Times Read: 563
Yo, it's the Doctor of Thuganomics, crackin' open your whack diary of delusions,
Neowise2020, scribblin' prophecies like a broke Nostradamus with zero solutions.
Economy crash comin'? Billionaires feastin' while you're barely breathin' air?
Bro, the only collapse is your sanity—vampire lord? You're a welfare nightmare.
Slurpin' ethereal energy like it's free WiFi, claimin' you're feastin' on me?
Nah, dawg, you're drainin' your mom's basement battery, starin' at screens for eternity.
Huntin' campaign launchin'? What, raidin' dumpsters for expired blood packs?
Sound like a feral cat with a god complex, plottin' attacks in a cardboard shack.
1929 Depression vibes? Astral projectin' from your future grave plot?
My guy, that's just sleep paralysis from too much weed and hot pocket rot.
Not immortal, just "mentally elevated"? Reincarnation rants from a past-life flop?
You're a recycled loser, comin' back as a roach—step on you, hear the pop.
Spartan livin'? More like squatter shame, hoardin' referral points like fool's gold,
Vampire landlord taxin' ghosts? Your domain's a Reddit thread, cold and old.
No coven green light? Occult sources ghostin' you like a bad Tinder date,
Failed the vampire vibe check—now you're solo, masturbatin' to your fate.
Machete in the cart, Faraday cloth for your tech? Preppin' like a tin-foil hat king,
Yule gifts for yourself? Bro, Santa's list says "pathetic," no bells gonna ring.
Crossbows, toxins, explosives from household crap? Grunt military braggin' rights?
M-203 totin' in the day, now you're a Walmart Rambo, hidin' from porch lights.
Filed an FCC complaint? "Duty as a citizen"? Snitchin' on internet phantoms, gee,
The feds laughed so hard, they forwarded it to memes—your paranoia's comedy.
Russian hackers stealin' your bank card? AI siege from Putin's crew?
Nah, that's just you forgettin' your PIN, blamin' the world for your screw-up brew.
Hypersensitive hermit, ragin' at shell profiles blockin' your score,
Level 99 dreams crushed by noobs—cry more, you gothic bore.
Night hikes chasin' moon phases, skippin' Thanksgiving like a loner champ,
Eatin' scraps from "generosity"? That's code for food stamps, vamp.
Ramkht priest burnin' in ecstasy? Buildin' tolerance to your own hot air?
Your coven's a fantasy fort—solo circle jerk, no one there to share.
Elemental ecstasy? Nah, that's gas from your prepper beans and fear,
Hater with delusions? Look in the mirror, queer—your journal's the real tear-jerker here.
I'm the Cenation savage, droppin' you with a verbal F5 tornado spin,
Basic Thuganomics autopsy: You're a prepper poser, straight garbage bin.
Word life, diary dunce—you're buried in your own bullsh*t spell,
Thuganomics rang the bell, send this fool back to his padded cell!
01:31 Dec 01 2025
Times Read: 572
Yo, yo listen up, I’m droppin’ bars like gravity on this fossilized clown,
Neowise pullin’ up like “fear me” bro, fear WHAT? Sit DOWN.
You ain’t dark, you ain’t deep, you ain’t supernatural might
You’re just what happens when Hot Topic stays open too late at night.
You call yourself a vampyre? Dude, you look like a mosquito on probation,
Walkin’ around midnight tryna “feed,” gettin’ denied by the entire nation.
You talk energy draining but you only drain vibes,
People see you in chat and immediately unsubscribe.
You do “ritual magick”? Man, your spellbook’s from Etsy,
You chant at candles like “spirits hear me” they ghost you out of pity.
Your night hikes? Bro, you sprint from squirrels, don’t pretend,
Even Google Maps be like “my guy, TURN AROUND, this is the end.”
Your beard look like it’s buffering, stuck on 34%,
Half wildlife habitat, half last year’s disappointment.
You say you’re tantric? Boy STOP you ain’t pullin’ NO tricks,
Your dating life read like patch notes:
“Fixed a bug where nobody texts him back. Still nobody texts him back.”
Two accounts? That’s not mystique, that’s midlife multishenanigans,
One account for flexing, the other for crying in the DMs like a mannequin.
Your coven kicked you out so hard you hit all seven astral planes,
Came back dizzy like “uhh… guys?… guys?” echoing your own name.
You rate profiles like a judgy grandma with nothing to do,
Droppin’ 7s and 8s like “hmm… their aura off-blue.”
Meanwhile your profile pic look like a paranormal mugshot,
Hair lookin’ like it escaped from your head in a breakout plot.
You say you’re immortal?
Bro, your knees gave out just STANDING
Even vampires laugh like “damn, dude… that landing.”
You try to stare intimidating but look like you misplaced your keys,
Your whole aesthetic screams “midlife crisis wizard with allergies.”
You wanna lead a wilderness tribe?
Bro, YOU? Lead WHAT?
The only thing followin’ you into the woods is your own gut.
You’d get lost five feet in, trip over a root, scream “SPIRIT ATTACK!”
Bear rolls its eyes like, “bro, relax.”
“Vampire landlord”? Man, you couldn’t tax a goldfish,
Only thing you ever drained was your own WiFi bandwidth.
Listen, Neowise
I ain’t here to haunt you, I’m here to humble you,
Fold you up, crumble you,
Serve you to the crowd like “Who ordered the roast?”
Cause this dude ain’t dark, he’s just poorly lit at most.
Word life.
You just got cooked by the Thuganomics ghostwriter.
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