i hate you cornball substack clowns

i really do

I hate all you cornball substack motherfuckers. Holy fucking shit I hate everybody on this app but me, myself, and I. Every single article I come across on this godforsaken app is teeming with pretentious purple bullshit. It feels like a competition for who can shove their head furthest up their own ass. This is not a forum for literature, this is an app for narcissists who spend too much time in their notes app. I am not spared from this category.

On the rare occasion that I do come across a piece of Good Writing, I hate it even more. Fuck you. Why the fuck are you better at this than me. That cannot be possible. I am the greatest writer on the face of the planet; my shit is gold and your shit is just fuel for me to digest in order to produce better writing. I spit on your prose, I spit on your syntax. Fuck you. Your words are mine.

How dare you say the thought that I was eventually going to say before I could, better than I could. How dare you tell a story more interesting than what happened to me last Thursday. Fuck you.

I hate you cornball substack clowns. I hate the posts that you like, I hate the people that you follow, I hate your thinly veiled attempts to virtue signal, I hate how horny you are all the god damn time, I hate how you gesture at bullshit as if it were profound simply because you made it flowery, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

I hate that I am on this app and I hate that I have actually dedicated time to sit down and write things with the intention of posting them on this platform of man-children, narcissistic whores, and autists of every flavor. I hate that by writing these words, I must acknowledge that I am a man-child, a narcissistic whore, and an autist of rich and pungent flavor.

I used to write things that would live and die in my notes app or my journal, and that was enough. I gained enough from the satisfaction of untying the tangle of my own thoughts through the process of writing them down. But then one day I saw somebody post something that got hundreds of likes and I thought to myself, “hey now wait a minute I can do better than that. I do better than that all day long baby.” Now I have a voracious appetite for approval. So instead of writing things that would never see the light of day because they lived in my private little portfolio of edgy self dissection, now I write things that will never see the light of day because nobody fucking cares and I am too lazy/egocentric/self-conscious/pussy to comment on things and attract people to my profile.

Full disclosure: I’m writing all this because a friend of mine just hopped on substack and has already amassed several hundred subscribers with the speed of a caffeinated cheetah on rocket skates. Does she have more articles posted than me? Yes. Does she post photos of her tits, stomach, and that thigh gap hard earned through teenage anorexia? Also yes.

Her comments section makes me want to go out and murder the first middle aged balding man that enters my line of sight. She is the most talented writer these men have ever seen. She is the reincarnation of Jane Austen, Virginia Woolf, and George Eliot, live and in the flesh. What they don’t know, what nobody is supposed to know, what I only know because I am a devious little bastard with eyes that pry at every possible glimpse into a person’s personal life, is that THESE ARTICLES ARE WRITTEN BY CHATGPT.

pack it up folks, look down there acrost the river, like you can almost see the place, we’re going home.

I hate you cornball, narcissistic, horny, pretentious, performative, pseudo-intellectual, virtue-signaling, trauma-dumping, thirst-trap-posting, purple-prose-peddling substack motherfuckers.

What really irks me is that genuinely interesting writers subscribe to her— people that I am subscribed to (Danny Li I will never forgive you.) I know that what I post amounts to little more than voyeuristic debaucherous smut with a side of drug addiction, so I am really no better, but is that really all it takes to see the big number go up? God has cursed me with this penis. If I had tits to show off I would be writing this from a super yacht in Ibiza, batting my eyelashes at Patrons Of The Arts.

I hate you cornball substack motherfuckers with the white-hot intensity of a thousand burning notes apps. I hate the way you preen and posture in your little digital salons, draping every half-baked thought in yards of purple prose like it’s a fucking ball gown at the met gala. I hate your performative vulnerability, your thinly veiled humblebrags, your desperate thirst traps masquerading as “embodied femininity” and “radical honesty.” I hate how you jerk each other off in the comments with paragraphs longer than the actual post, calling mid-tier navel-gazing ‘brilliant’ and ‘brave’ while the rest of us attempt not to projectile vomit at the sheer audacity. You’re not writers, you’re content monks flagellating yourselves for clout, horny little monks who discovered that letting chatGPT polish your trauma makes the big number go up so fast that you forget what the fuck you were trying to do in the first place. Fuck all of you. I hate you, I hate your followers, I hate your aesthetic, and most of all I hate that I’m exactly the same species of creature, just worse at the grift.

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