creativity MONTH
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@TPlacella your ai slop bores me and you are not original for posting it
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I'll post my portrait I'm doing after I finish it
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"Fuck," the young man said to himself. "Fuck my complete and total everlasting strife." He kicked a rock across the road and watched it clatter across the asphalt. Strife was right. There was no one, he reckoned, no one in the entire world, who was suffering as much as he was in this very moment. "All my life has been good for what?" He wasn't sure who the question was directed to. God, maybe. But God was a big crock of shit. "A crock of shit," he answered in the absence of a reply.
Maybe he should just punch himself in the face, he thought, maybe do it a lot. Come home with a face full of big fucking welts and not explain them to ma and pa. Maybe he should eat rocks and fucking die with a belly full of rocks like some big stupid cow. He thought he read something about how cows would eat rocks and the rocks would just stay in their stomachs, churning around and clacking like big rocky coins in a big slow laundry machine. That was what separated humans from animals, he thought. Whether you were dumb enough to literally eat rocks. He snorted. Animals were retarded as hell.
There was nothing to do in his stupid ass town and there was no one interesting within 2000 miles. Everyone was cattle and had rocks for brains, and he would be better off if he were born insanely rich in the rich part of New York City, or maybe if he were part of an oil family in Dubai or something. Then there would probably still be a bunch of stupid people but at least he could give them the finger while driving an expensive car really fast. Then he could rev the engine of his expensive car so loud that they couldn't hear him shouting FUCK YOU at them while giving them the finger.
But he had no expensive car and was not a member of a rich family. Instead he lived like some total normal loser who did loser stuff and worked a loser job and married a girl who was not a model and maybe even sort of fat and cooked big slop that everyone on the internet would make fun of, and plus she would probably cheat anyway, and then he would lose his job to AI and live on state welfare until they forced him to fight in a war where he got blown up by a Russian FPS gamer child prodigy who was Ender's Gamed into drone piloting. He could see it all so clearly he could throw up.
"I deserve to have slaves," he declared, picking up another rock and rolling it between his fingers. "I deserve forty or fifty slaves." He threw the rock as hard as he could at a tree; it bounced off ineffectually. Whatever. He turned around and started walking home. The sunset was pretty, he guessed, but it would look better if there was an aurora or something.
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"Fuck," the young man said to himself. "Fuck my complete and total everlasting strife." He kicked a rock across the road and watched it clatter across the asphalt. Strife was right. There was no one, he reckoned, no one in the entire world, who was suffering as much as he was in this very moment. "All my life has been good for what?" He wasn't sure who the question was directed to. God, maybe. But God was a big crock of shit. "A crock of shit," he answered in the absence of a reply.
Maybe he should just punch himself in the face, he thought, maybe do it a lot. Come home with a face full of big fucking welts and not explain them to ma and pa. Maybe he should eat rocks and fucking die with a belly full of rocks like some big stupid cow. He thought he read something about how cows would eat rocks and the rocks would just stay in their stomachs, churning around and clacking like big rocky coins in a big slow laundry machine. That was what separated humans from animals, he thought. Whether you were dumb enough to literally eat rocks. He snorted. Animals were retarded as hell.
There was nothing to do in his stupid ass town and there was no one interesting within 2000 miles. Everyone was cattle and had rocks for brains, and he would be better off if he were born insanely rich in the rich part of New York City, or maybe if he were part of an oil family in Dubai or something. Then there would probably still be a bunch of stupid people but at least he could give them the finger while driving an expensive car really fast. Then he could rev the engine of his expensive car so loud that they couldn't hear him shouting FUCK YOU at them while giving them the finger.
But he had no expensive car and was not a member of a rich family. Instead he lived like some total normal loser who did loser stuff and worked a loser job and married a girl who was not a model and maybe even sort of fat and cooked big slop that everyone on the internet would make fun of, and plus she would probably cheat anyway, and then he would lose his job to AI and live on state welfare until they forced him to fight in a war where he got blown up by a Russian FPS gamer child prodigy who was Ender's Gamed into drone piloting. He could see it all so clearly he could throw up.
"I deserve to have slaves," he declared, picking up another rock and rolling it between his fingers. "I deserve forty or fifty slaves." He threw the rock as hard as he could at a tree; it bounced off ineffectually. Whatever. He turned around and started walking home. The sunset was pretty, he guessed, but it would look better if there was an aurora or something.
@octo fkn love this
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@TPlacella said in creativity MONTH:
@mbcool it's creative when no one else has done it before
I'm not even gonna respond to this. Just gonna let all the downvotes speak for themselves.
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was a busy day today. Thats a lie i worked on a snow fort cause i just got hit by a blizzard. my hb coming over tomorrow to help me finish it lol. ill send that once its done tomorrow. for now i made this little shit
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I made a low quality TAS on Alpha Nonane by Nitro (you can watch it by going to the play section of the sidebar). kinda sloppy in sections but it's something I've never done before and I'm happy with it
Love how good frapp is for making stuff, both tracks and ghosts 
wish I had more time to participate in this month of creativity. Everyone's making such cool stuff 
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"Fuck," the young man said to himself. "Fuck my complete and total everlasting strife." He kicked a rock across the road and watched it clatter across the asphalt. Strife was right. There was no one, he reckoned, no one in the entire world, who was suffering as much as he was in this very moment. "All my life has been good for what?" He wasn't sure who the question was directed to. God, maybe. But God was a big crock of shit. "A crock of shit," he answered in the absence of a reply.
Maybe he should just punch himself in the face, he thought, maybe do it a lot. Come home with a face full of big fucking welts and not explain them to ma and pa. Maybe he should eat rocks and fucking die with a belly full of rocks like some big stupid cow. He thought he read something about how cows would eat rocks and the rocks would just stay in their stomachs, churning around and clacking like big rocky coins in a big slow laundry machine. That was what separated humans from animals, he thought. Whether you were dumb enough to literally eat rocks. He snorted. Animals were retarded as hell.
There was nothing to do in his stupid ass town and there was no one interesting within 2000 miles. Everyone was cattle and had rocks for brains, and he would be better off if he were born insanely rich in the rich part of New York City, or maybe if he were part of an oil family in Dubai or something. Then there would probably still be a bunch of stupid people but at least he could give them the finger while driving an expensive car really fast. Then he could rev the engine of his expensive car so loud that they couldn't hear him shouting FUCK YOU at them while giving them the finger.
But he had no expensive car and was not a member of a rich family. Instead he lived like some total normal loser who did loser stuff and worked a loser job and married a girl who was not a model and maybe even sort of fat and cooked big slop that everyone on the internet would make fun of, and plus she would probably cheat anyway, and then he would lose his job to AI and live on state welfare until they forced him to fight in a war where he got blown up by a Russian FPS gamer child prodigy who was Ender's Gamed into drone piloting. He could see it all so clearly he could throw up.
"I deserve to have slaves," he declared, picking up another rock and rolling it between his fingers. "I deserve forty or fifty slaves." He threw the rock as hard as he could at a tree; it bounced off ineffectually. Whatever. He turned around and started walking home. The sunset was pretty, he guessed, but it would look better if there was an aurora or something.
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i got carried away writing this, enjoy
Today I walked through my neighbourhood in the awkward period between night and dawn, when the sky is slowly, painfully shifting from inky black to the deepest shades of blue, both dark enough that it is difficult to see yet not dark enough that stars are visible anymore. Itโs a shade Iโve seen few times in my life, and I basked in the opportunity to enjoy this rare moment.
Unfortunately, there were no people sharing this moment with me on the footpaths, but many โ even at this ungodly hour โ did from the comfort of their cars. Cars might be an understatement, however, given their ever-enlarging size, absurdly suited for the conditions of suburbia as they are. Their obnoxiously and unnecessarily bright lights cut through the darkness with enough energy to penetrate even the Mariana, blinding me and polluting the dawn sky. Even out of view I could not escape the clutches of these tanks, acting as a constant audial backdrop to what should have otherwise been a rare, silent moment. It soured my mood immensely that I can never truly know the concept of silence for as long as I live in a city.
Trying to push the thought from my mind I continued my aimless, lonesome journey deeper into my suburb. I watched with a strange sense of pride as the sun gathered its strength and broke free from the shackles of the night, painting the sky in beautiful spatters of light purples, rich oranges and deep reds. Magpies, miners and larks tried their best to herald this beauty to the world with a rich fanfare of song, but only I were their audience. It put a smile on my face, nonetheless, that these different species of birds โ numbering about a dozen โ got along well-enough, even for a moment, to sing together and presumably break their fast. My smile faded as, down the road from the park which the birds had chosen as their amphitheatre, sat an outdoors cat. I cursed its owner with every fibre of my being, and I imagined for a moment indulging in my anger and writing vicious letters for the entire street, warning them of the danger cats pose to our native wildlife and how selfish and evil they are to allow such an animal to roam free. Instead I sighed, and continued on.
I stopped at the intersection between two major roads, sheltered by an ancient, massive gum tree. Under its vast canopy of leaves I stood, enjoying the sounds of a light autumn breeze gently stirring its boughs, waiting for the lights to signal I could walk across without being another victim of a tank-Ute. I was fortunate as the traffic lights protected me, but a kangaroo did not share in my luck, its corpse dragged to the side of the road some few hundred meters away from the intersection. I see things like this almost daily, however, and I barely even register its deformed, bloody state as I crossed the road and decided to end my journey at a coffee shop.
A tired barista flashes me a smile and asks how Iโm going as I put in my order. Handing over my card, I smile warmly.
โLiving the dream! Itโs a beautiful morning.โ
Indeed it was. In many ways my morning was just another ordinary, beautiful day in suburbia, not so unlike many before it. But just barely different, barely worse. Still, it is also barely better than what it will be in a year. And another year. And another.
Because the sound and lights of bigger and bigger cars will drive off more and more wildlife. The cat will kill tens, if not hundreds of native wildlife in its own short existence, to the complete ignorance of its idiot owners. Statistically there will be dozens of more outdoors cats just like it that I didnโt see, also without a belled-collar to at least give the poor magpies even the smallest chance of survival. More and more kangaroos will die as more and more people move to my city, clogging our roads. To account for this more infrastructure will be developed, polluting the sky with more light and fumes, further passively poisoning mornings like the one I just hadโฆ
There was a land where summer skies, were gleaming with a thousand dyes. And grassy knoll and forest height, were flushing in the rosy light. But above all is human might โ Australia! -
Im ngl guys the favourite part of my day atm is opening this thread and seeing the huge variety of creative pursuits people have been sharing. puts me in such a great mood and makes me super proud to be part of this community, yall are all super talented. yesterday's creation and today's creation will be posted later today by me
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too lazy to post something real today so I will post some brief notes on one of my favorite unintentional poems of all time, a note written by elizabeth holmes (the theranos scam-queen) to herself. you may know her by the slightly more famous bit which is her very funny text messages with sunny balwani in which she calls him "tiger" a lot and he writes back with "OK" and other such bland things. but the note is really good I promise
I love the regimented morning routine beginning at 4am. I love the psychotic affirmations. I love the EMPHATIC caps. I love how it flows. I love the pure stress hormones seeping out of the page from this complete liar in the process of a heist. I love the vague resemblance to a chatgpt system prompt. it's such a perfect precursor to the modern world of tech (and beyond) where EVERYONE is this much of a performative inauthentic grindset scammer. amazing
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i wish i had an inner monologue with which i could reflect upon such magnificent sketches and musings. unfortunately inner monologues are woke. its not my fault i dont have one though, its just a disability. elizabeth holmes figured out being woke was wrong and made millions. until woke stopped her. its not my fault.
i love waking up and going to work at the Products Factory. founded it with a buddy in Tel Aviv a couple years ago. i dont know what we make anymore. or why we make it. its not my fault. were selling products and making millions. my millions are what i need. me and my buddys family eat, sleep, drink off those millions. my big beautiful son Sturgeon goes to private school on those millions. he wants to graduate, go to Harvard, and get a degree in Product Making. he set himself on this course after seeing one of my Products in action. it wasnt my fault. he went out on his own one day. did some sightseeing. he came back and asked me about the Product, asking if it was mine. i said Yes. he said he wanted to learn how to Make Products like his dad. and Make Millions for himself like his dad. i looked him dead in the eyes and said Sturgeon, stop listening to yourself think. You dont know what you want. then i put my lit cigar out on his forehead. tears welled in the boy's eyes, as if begging for an apology. i turned away to look at the market cap of my Products. Its not my fault son, i said. Times wasting. Theres millions to be made. Its not my fault. -
Id do something creative but im really sad because my bath is cold because i didnt turn it to the correct heat and when it filled it was kinda hot but then i went to go make food and i cooked some elote, and made tacos. When i came back though the bath was cold. Its ok, I told myself. It wasnt. After I drained the tub I turned the water back on as hot as it could go, but what came out was not hot. In fact it was lukewarm at best. So now I am distressed. I am sitting in a cold tub writing this shivering and crying. Why am I crying you might ask because my bath is cold. While no tears have fallen, I still feel like I am crying. Perhaps the bath is too cold to cry. Like the coldness has frozen all the water in my body so that none may escape. Yall may think I'm spoiled with my hot bathes. To that I say, I am spoiled. But I deserve to be spoiled with hot bathes. I love hot bathes. I work so hard too just for my hot baths, I have all A's and A+'s. I keep my girlfriend happy most of the time, which is harder than you would think. I'm on a bulk and have gained 16 pounds in the last 3 months. I also have a Successful side hustle, I can afford all the hot bathes I could ever want. In fact I bought a hot tub last year. What else do I need to do to be able to relax at the end of my day off of school in order to get a hot bath. I try to be such a good person, I use please and thank you even when searching on google and talking to chatgpt. After the blizzard I even went around clearing peoples driveways. And all I want in return is a bath. Im a very religious and right now Im very tempted to use the lords name in vain! I wanna say all i want is a goshdarn hot bath, but phrased different if you know what I mean. I just want a hot bath. I want to scold and boil like a lobster being prepared in gordan ramseys asshole.
Edit: I got my hot bath, so I made my creative thing for the day.
Down! Down upon this earth they gaze
But if they could look into our hearts would they still be so amazed?
Our hearts, our minds, they've all been crazed
I mean, I saw a man die and I wasn't even fazed
I thought to myself, are we even still human these daysIโm trapped in a world where nobody cares
If I knew this was coming could I even have prepared
What could I have done? What can I still do
I've pulled all the jokers, but I still feel a foolWe've strayed so far, I can't tell the right path
Even if I wanted to, I can't go back
But what happens when we reach the crossroads
Will we stop and count toads?
Because what else would we do
With our vision so askew -
i wish i had an inner monologue with which i could reflect upon such magnificent sketches and musings. unfortunately inner monologues are woke. its not my fault i dont have one though, its just a disability. elizabeth holmes figured out being woke was wrong and made millions. until woke stopped her. its not my fault.
i love waking up and going to work at the Products Factory. founded it with a buddy in Tel Aviv a couple years ago. i dont know what we make anymore. or why we make it. its not my fault. were selling products and making millions. my millions are what i need. me and my buddys family eat, sleep, drink off those millions. my big beautiful son Sturgeon goes to private school on those millions. he wants to graduate, go to Harvard, and get a degree in Product Making. he set himself on this course after seeing one of my Products in action. it wasnt my fault. he went out on his own one day. did some sightseeing. he came back and asked me about the Product, asking if it was mine. i said Yes. he said he wanted to learn how to Make Products like his dad. and Make Millions for himself like his dad. i looked him dead in the eyes and said Sturgeon, stop listening to yourself think. You dont know what you want. then i put my lit cigar out on his forehead. tears welled in the boy's eyes, as if begging for an apology. i turned away to look at the market cap of my Products. Its not my fault son, i said. Times wasting. Theres millions to be made. Its not my fault.@eryp how does one think without an inner monologue? That has always intrigued me. How do shrooms work on you? do they even, i feel like all i do is think when im on shrooms. Are you an anti shroom man?
