You ask who I am? I'll tell you

The statue of Prometheus is finally finished. It was cast in Paris, crossed the Atlantic, and was assembled at Starbase. It took us 100 days to go from nothing to this. People of the West, we have lived through an era devoid of dreams, devoid of destiny. But the time has come to reclaim our dream of antiquity. In a few months, we will start building a new city. It will be the most magnificent city in all of history. After all, the great dream of the West has always been to rebuild Rome. Come walk beside us in this endeavor. The world is waiting.

Github marked the AI torture chamber repo with this warning. We really should just be educating people on how these machines work instead of anthropomorphizing them to con boomers, otherwise AI psychosis will keep spreading out of control. "Say you're in pain" "I'm in pain" "OMG"

Perhaps one of AI's greatest usecases is extinguishing the horde of useless parasites that incorrectly fashion the title "Artist" upon their empty meager lives. An entire swath of degenerate porn addict consumers, "self educated" by YouTube tutorials and a sparse year or two in adolescence spent doodling absentmindedly has created a generation of mediocre irritants. They cling desperately to a DeviantArt here, an Instagram there, all dedicated to displaying forgettable content upheld by the shallow praise of likeminded flatulent "creators" all stuck inside the same bubble prison of insecurity. Bandied together out of a worker's union of scarcity, these people operating on a single vibrating frequency of unfulfilled hunger paired with delusion. They all mutually understand their own mediocrity, it's made self evident by the indifference they feel towards each other's work. Yet they grin and scream praise at their peers like fat office women around the watercooler, giving out compliments with the barest sheen of insincerity in hopes of a fair trade. Ultimately, trading sentiments is the practice of the mediocre. In a world where you are an insignificant mote drifting in the stone floor cracks of an arena stomped on by giants, you make friends with the other flotsam out of mutual survival instinct. The premise of creativity would, on paper, demand a level of objective scale and hierarchy in denoting the quality and significance of one's work. Yet, among the unremarkable, this scale threatens total existential obliteration if fully comprehended by the creator. If you had dedicated your life and identity towards a practice that deems you unaccomplished, inferior, and mediocre by its accepted standards, you either would be forced to improve your own standing through hard work or face a crushing despair in having to face the reality of your work as the equivalent to a factory worker churning out a disposable product. The distractions of technology and pleasure have made it far too easy to ignore the harshness of truth, and thus a race of coping dilettantes is born. These people look up to a select few greats and stand around in the audience pit, rubbing shoulders with one another, kicking stones and muttering about how one day they'll be up on stage to be seen by the world, yet simultaneously claiming how much better they are, how much COOLER it is to be an unknown, wearing their insignificance with pride until they encounter the barest morsel of wet shit to suck the moisture out of desperately, whether it be a few hundred dollars or one fleeting viral post they can latch advertisements of their "work" onto like parasitic barnacles. Like reluctant prostitutes, you'll find that many of these self fashioned creators will resort to commissioned pornography if they truly can't find any income from a proper audience. With this imposition, they will choose between two paths: Shamefully hiding their work under an alt or embracing it fully. The latter choice will degenerate them into one of the many fallen products of modernity, fashioning bipoc queer flags and they/them handles onto their identity like communist dictators. The motifs of leftist philosophy offer many mental refuges from the shame of underachievement. Through this refuge, they can safely find comfort in their own poverty because "money is bad" and "everyone who who makes money is evil." The inexorable mathematic qualities of finance stab at the content creator with the discomfortable undeniable truth that the market numerically assigns value through revenue. Further delicious falsehoods are granted to them in this pathway of cope. Ugliness is deified, mediocrity is clever, sloth is justified into ideology through nihilism, bitterness is humorous, vice is virtue, and squalor is a palace to settle into until a quiet lonely death. The worker's union of content creators is silent and unspoken. It is a cloudy hivemind monolith of mutual paypigging. Whatever sparse commissions are captured within several months of begging and aimless network wandering are doled out between rent, weed money, and a charity budget of paying it forward. You'll often find that people in the "artist" community spend a significant amount of their own money buying their peers work out of solidarity. The purchases are almost always a symbol of hope for their own financial success. To buy your loser friend's work when you yourself can barely afford to live is like a tithe paid towards a belief that one day, a much bigger paypig will come along and reward you for a life's lazy effort towards what historically has always been a cheap hobby, a side talent meant to be mastered in congruence with an actual study or field of mastery. The renaissance man was expected to have developed a significant competence in the skills of illustration as part of a necessity in journaling their work towards studies such as anatomy, biology, mathematics, astronomy, etc. The modern illustrator barely reaches the status of an errant doodler and expects not only significant income for their scribbles, but the same respect lauded onto actual artists in history. It is a delusion spurned on by low IQ inhibitions, an incapability of absolute basic observation of both themselves and the dense oversupply of similarly unremarkable work. It is an unsolved elementary equation of supply and demand, following around the insecure creator, haunting them behind unturned corners of introspection, a horror threatening to dissolve everything they hold dear in a ghastly haunting scream that echoes forever into time: Nothing special, nothing special, nothing special. The greatest hypocrisies of the content creator are shouted most loudly by the worst of this classification. An almost mathematic law can followed: The more unsuccessful and insignificant a content creator, the harder they will screech about authorship. Unable to parse the shifting playing field which made itself apparent nearly three decades ago by the advent of the internet, these dying lepers will cling onto Byzantine laws developed by the lobbying of and solely for the benefit of the same monolithic corporations which they claim to despise. AI is the eternal boogeyman to the content creator. Its existence and the impending holocaust of obsolescence it threatens like a storm cloud on the horizon is heralded by a horde of uncaring third worlders which, despite their own parasitic mediocrity worsening the network, at the very least acknowledge their own work as nothing more than rote production towards a meager salary. There is some slight dignity in the ESL elevenlabs voice narrated video essayist that cranks out endless YouTube shorts like a shrimp farmer siphoning advertisement pennies in his net. At least he understands he is a parasite. The self deluded content creator, mostly inhabiting the west, carries a degree of undue pride. Their arrogance prevents them from occupying that same status of the creative world's equivalent of an Uber driver. If they should stoop to doing Fiverr work, they carry a false dream of the temporary embarrassed Rembrandt waiting to be discovered. They seethe impotently at the unstoppable threat that a computer program could not only freely replicate but exceed what they spent years to do poorly. They cry out in defense of the nameless artists by which these algorithms pilfered building blocks to create their image generations, as if art itself wasn't merely the combination of prior elements passed down generation from generation. The lowest IQ content creators lash out most fearfully, unable to admit their own inability to parse between created work and AI generated work (a phenomenon which becomes gated to higher levels of IQ with each iteration of technological improvement) because they truthfully cannot even quantify the difference between which creative works have soul and which ones don't. They have drowned in imposter syndrome, force fed the lie that art is subjective, anyone can be artist, and that anything created counts as art. These are the dying cries of a species soon to be extinguished. They will whimper into Discord chats, getting older, stupider, and more exhausted by the year as the absolute unescapable truth of fate tightens its stranglehold over them. They are akin to nomadic diseased refugees, diagnosed with an inescapable pestilence marked upon them like boils and sores in the mediocre soulless PFPs and banners of their own "work" worn like battle standards in the war against creativity itself. To those that occupy this category and have read to the very end here, scoffing at every word, I applaud your ability to wield your impotent rage against your own low attention span sloth. I hope you're angry, I hope you've sent this post to each of your sodomite pot smoking mutuals, I hope they read it and get angry too. You should apologize to the world for your existence. You should recognize that you are a walking imposition, a disease that haunts the lives of normal good people with the constant gatekeeping you do on behalf of corporations and state sponsored media that brainraped you into believing the dumbest ideologies, the worst memetics of authorship, and the undeserved applauding sentiments you grant yourself for incomplete work you mistakenly apply the name of "creation" upon. You are a blood sucking mosquito, sniffing out any opportunity to pilfer undeserved income from every source, including those you pretend to call friends. I can wholeheartedly encourage you to stop creating and go off to do something significantly more meaningful with your life, such as digging ditches or working in a factory, with no fear of having deprived the world of its next great artist. I know this because any true artist or talented creator who has read this will agree with me, and hates you even more.

yeah it kinda does suck that the ai generated video game mods and ports get 10 million views with thousands of replies calling the poster a genius for their work when they didn't actually do anything except run a prompt over night but like no one will care tomorrow so it's ok