He wanted to tell the whole World Wide Web how he felt: She’s so hot I want to clean her room, rescue her, white knight defend her in comments and battle. He was in his /a/ poster arc, Why Is She So Perfect? but he’d have to play it cool, chill sigma, no simping. Alcibiades, that’s me. The last samurai, I’m him. I’m literally him. I’m Ryan Gosling in Drive. I’m American Psycho. I’m Joker. I’m Taxi Driver. He’d stand above her, tall and strong. She’d stare up at him with her shining anime, no her shining animal eyes, her real eyes, realize real lies. Wondering what he was thinking. He’d stare into them and then he’d sit beside her, very close, take a breath and say, Damn Bitch, You Live Like This? like Max to Roxanne from A Goofy Movie (1995) from the meme (2016).
They would smile. There would be butterflies. She’d kiss his cheek, his real cheek, not the marble one, the pink one with the acne scars.
He was a handsome boy on the subway. She was sitting across from him. He had spiky hair. She didn’t have a nose. They were transitory, unreal in their realness, MSpaint mouse-drawn lineart. She smiled towards him and he had to look away. Because she was not like other girls? Because she was still a virgin at her age? He couldn’t face her. He didn’t even go to clubs. FTGA.
But it was all a fantasy. The wall was too high, as you can see. And he had brainworms. She said see you later boy. But I don’t want to make it anymore ovbious.
Walks in the thread. Sees the comments. Walks out.
Is this a James Joyce LLM or something?
Ha! Bold of you to think there’ll be any novels in (more)fascist USA. It’ll all be AI generated youtube slop like this instead.
I wouldn’t read a whole novel written like this, but this could make a great poem.
