The Forever Poast
The internet is a time machine...
A man experiences time dilation on the internet.
Enjoy!
The Forever Poast
July, 2016
All these years, and I still get butterflies before a drop.
The intelligence precedes me via mesh networked brainbooths, forming an international super state of hatred for the antichrist. Observation, reaction within the darkness, paint the target with a meme, fire.
This one came fully formed. I only need the fire.
A family photo with 10 views, some Native Americans flipping the middle finger to Mount Rushmore. Drag and drop, platform x to platform y, thought-words from my boiling gut: “Fuck these people”
Post drops.
Hits hard: retweet, share, reshare, like-like-like, one big guy boosts it and then another — stacking like HP floaters over a Baldur’s Gate dragon.
Aftershock: seethe and gnashing of teeth — we’re over the target.
Dog PFP: “Learn history, actually these people…”
Laser eyed Bernie Sanders PFP: “The fact you would focus on THIS says more about you than…”
Mute, mute, like-like-like, bookmark for later. We won today.
July, 2016
Full dispersal achieved. Many accounts resharing the image without crediting me, not even malicious but just copies of copies of copies until I’m just another irrelevant node.
But it’s slowing to a simmer — forgotten by next week except by some Know Your Meme jannies.
December, 2018
Heard the Rushmore pic referenced on a pod today and had to chuckle. Veteran of the Meme Wars and all that.
January, 2020
Fresh contact and it pissed me off again. Some kid posted the Rushmore pic with the dumbest caption imaginable, completely missing the point. The cost of decentralized self replication.
Reshared anyway.
February, 2020
Another stale repost of it, poor meme rations and for third time this month no less. Dead internet theory by way of circular self-succ memeplex.
Every day the same talking points: TikTok ragebait, flavortown, Thanos snap, reposts of reposts of shit that wasn’t that funny the first time.
Deleting this no-follower account anyways so I can work on my game and getting fit.
March, 2023
New account initiated and they were right where I left them. Ten clicks before three sets of beady Indio eyes stared back at me, self important grimaces on their faces. Fuck these people.
But I had to wonder, when did I see them the first time?
When was the picture even taken?
Search for the original page: gone.
My original post: gone.
All I have is this post in front of me today. A new post of the same faces, and in my stomach the same vinegar burp of indigestion at these fucking people. I’m pissed at them and pissed at myself; they aren’t even here or there, an unsightable target — they could be having sex or touching grass right now as I’m building a pyramid of piss bottles in memory of their yesterday.
They don’t know my mom has cancer, but I can never forget their stupid fucking Montana vacation. Did they pack back into a Volkswagon and grimace all the way back down the mountain?
Fuck these people.
February, 2025
They’re still out there. Reposted again and again. Every time the same afterglow of ugly when I see.
But maybe it’s not a weakness. Or it doesn’t have to be.
I could control it.
July, 2031
Lolmilk Launch day.
Over a decade of development and riding AI vibe code like a wave of brilliance, and today I’m ready to be a billionaire.
Soon millions will subscribe to my SaaSy-ass and get on demand snuff films of the world’s worst sinners — contract is already in place with papa Indio himself. Works like this:
He and every other lolcow gets paid to have their neurolinks hooked up to run agony.exe when a payer puts in enough credits. That pain experience gets transmogrified into a forwardable .neuro file.
So what they experience is saved and sent to the payer as proof of pain (PoP). The Lolmilk guarantee. And that can be forwarded on to your friends as a prank, or just to know how they felt when played back on your own neurolink.
Sure the heels will get rich, but at least they get filthy. Spiritual bug splat. I won’t let them walk away from the damage, the ugliness. They will live in it every day, and the market will recalibrate to seduce any reluctance.
Hatred lost in time, built up and floating between dimensions since the birth of the internet, has now found itself released into the present, and I hope it will be a beautiful thing.
Decades of observation, reaction, painting the target.
Now fire.
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We’ve also released a novella ‘Improvidence’, a Lewis & Clark style adventure across the post-collapse ruins of America following a new spiritual awakening: https://a.co/d/3AGjHU2
More like this from the archive:
Despairingly true.