copypasta material from the farms - posts that are extremely copypasta material on kiwi farms

Snowstorm Sunrise

There’s nowhere without gods on that side either.
In the SRS thread, an FTM recently posted an essay that was very copypasta worthy in my opinion and this isn't the first time I've seen that kind of thing from Kiwi Farms, so I thought we should make a thread for them.
Hiya. I've been lurking around for a while, mostly out of curiosity. I was interested in your discussions about surgery/transgenderism, and I thought you all might like a few anecdotes/input from someone in that circle. I'll try to word this as objectively/passively as I can, so unfortunately I won't use any of the fun words you guys use. It's also very long.

Spoiler: "Spergery" under the spoiler, as one would call it
To preface this, maybe it's a good idea to start off with my position in all of this. As mentioned before, I'm in circles where many are transgender (maybe "participating in transgenderism" is a more appropriate term - there's traditional old-fashion trans people, and then there's a bulk of what you discuss here in this forum, which I would label transgenderism). I'm trans myself. That being said, I'm not a pure SJW. I'm open to any opinion, including criticism. I often lurk in Kiwifarms because it opens me up to a lot of opinions, so I'm not trapped in an echo chamber. You might gain some insights from this, or you might think I'm a snitch sucking up to farmers. But it'd be of your interest to read nonetheless.

I'll mostly talk about thouse who participate transgenderism here. So, here's some answers to your question, from someone trans, in trans circles. Why do people "troon out"? Specifically, why do they go through the process of SRS? Don't they know it's life-altering? The aftercare involved, especially with MtF SRS? The results? The function?

The answer is one you already know: because they think SRS gives them the real thing. Seriously. I know this has been discussed plenty before here, about the community being an echochamber of "it's just like the real thing!", but I think there's a few crucial details missing.

Before reading this thread, I myself wasn't truly aware of the risks, complications, and how life-altering SRS is. Many trans people - or at least those in my circle - did not either. Of course, I knew surgery came with risks, and yes duh it will change my life - but not the full extent of the pain, horror, and often regret that comes with it. Yes, I know that it "wouldn't be the real thing" - but somehow my mind translated that to "close enough" instead of "it's far from even 'close enough'", if that makes any sense. Most of what I see and hear are success stories, or simply the fact that people had the surgery, end of. Why is this?

There's a few factors, but a major one is the big, black hole of information (or lack thereof). As I said - I thought it was just regular cosmetic surgery. Many trans people knew just as much as I did. Normal people aren't surgeons or medically educated. They don't know that your nerves get rearranged, about dehiscence, the possibility of ripped stitches, the fact that your genitals won't magically grow muscles or reconnect all the nerves. Seriously, they don't, unless they research so deeply until they find this thread. It's like a magician's box. Rabbit goes in, duck goes out. How does it happen? Nobody knows, but as long as it works... (or so they think, I suppose).

Why don't they research something in-depth before going through with such an invasive procedure, then? That's a good argument - but wouldn't you trust your surgeon that if he said he'd amputate an infected leg, he'd amputate it with as little experimental methods as possible? Same thing with expecting your electrician or whatever to do the job. I'm not saying this is right - SRS is elective and, like all cosmetic surgeries, one should do proper, in-depth research, because the effects are mostly social vs. function/life-and-death (e.g. the leg amputation example). But I'm sure you understand my thought process. One would expect high-quality (maybe even decent at least) care and results from someone of high expectations, i.e. the surgeon. This is a thought shared across the trans community.

Even if you're skeptical like me, however - I ended up on this thread after all - even if you research until you die, the reality is that surgeons gatekeep their worst results. So does the community. Search information about gender-affirming surgeries is genuinely like being trapped in an echochamber. You've all read about it in this thread. It's so impossible to find this sort of info because, for reasons even I don't know why, it's taboo to talk about botched SRS results. Perhaps it's the fact that it perpetuates the fear of "it'll never be a real thing". While yes, it's true, it reminds them exactly that. That they'll never be a real man, woman, whatever they identify as. And as someone from this side of the circle, I know this, and this really hurts hearing it despite knowing how true it is. You have a choice of saying "yeah, it isn't the real thing" (which makes you seem trans for the sake of being trans, which is seen as bad, because "trans men are men" and "trans women are women") and "no, it's actually the real thing" (which makes you seem delusional, even in the most delusional trans circles, which is also bad).

Even if you've done all your research, there's pure desperation and poor judgement. I can't exactly accuse people wanting SRS being fetishists - it's not my place to say whether that's true or not, because some of these people genuinely do want the surgery without being freaks about it - but it's not hard to see the same thing with lots of cosmetic surgeries. Breast implants (on cis women). Veneers. Fillers. Botox. It's hard to see far into the future - one doesn't often think about what they'll look like when they're old, what clothes they wear, what kind of fashion they're into, etc. It's even harder to see the long-term effects of such surgeries long, long after the hype dies, maybe ten, twenty years down the road. Breast implants often puncture or need to be renewed (afaik implants need replacing after 10-20 years - not a lot of people know this). Veneers blast your teeth down to its roots, now you have nothing left and it hurts all the time. Same thing with SRS. It's very easy to say "yep, I'll actually still want it when I'm old" - and folks say that for a lot of things, and it might not even be SRS. That stupid tattoo might've been a good idea when you were 18. Now, ten, twenty years later? It's stupid, and you think - why did I get that? But that's simply human nature. We're shit at predicting the future because the present eggs on at us to have it now. Unfortunately, this is catastrophic when it's an SRS decision you're making. I wouldn't even say it's consumerist behaviour. For many, it's poor judgement.

Alright - let's just say, one goes through SRS. It's terrible and it sucks. Why still recommend it to others? Because the train of thought for these people - and it's not far from folks like me and you - is that just because it's botched with this doctor, it doesn't mean the other doctor will do the same thing. This is a crucial problem: trans folks don't think the problem lies with the surgery itself, but with the doctors who perform it. While I'm sure there's people out there who have severe consumer's regret and want others to be trapped in the same thing so they're not alone, there's plenty more out there who criticise the doctor and not the surgery, hence they still recommend it to others. Of course, you folks here know it's both the surgeon and their practice. But they don't have the same information you might have.

On that note, I too noticed that there's a lot more MtFs undergoing SRS than FtMs. Some FtMs are even dead-set on not wanting bottom surgery. I can't really say why the numbers are like this exactly, but for me personally, it's because I don't want to lose my sexual function. I'm AFAB (assigned female at birth), so if I want to pass as male, I've got options like packers, STP (stand-to-pee) devices, sex toys, etc. If I want to speculate, it's because MtFs have to tuck if they want to pass, and bulges are the least feminine thing ever. Caitlyn Jenner's (Bruce Jenner) quote comes to mind. "I'm tired of tucking the damn thing in all the time". But if you're wondering about possible perceptions like FtM SRS being less "high stakes" than MtF SRS, I can't exactly answer it because I don't know.

Then there's the (very reasonable) question of, "do they seriously see each other as totally real, convincing men/women?" And the answer might vary, depending on which trans person you ask. I'm going to say yes to this question, but the answer might not be what you think it is.

I'm going to repeat again, I'm mostly talking about transgenderism here - i.e. the seeming "fad" that somehow there's so much more trans people than in the 70s or so. Funny thing is, it's directly linked to what people in the 70s don't have - it's the internet.

Many - I'd say even the majority - of trans people are chronically online. Almost 24/7, loner at school/workplace, no-social-life-outside-the-net type of deal. As a result, their online personas - where they present themselves as their identified gender - blurs and bleeds into the perception of themselves IRL. Because they solely live online, appearances no longer matter. You can be whatever you'd like to be, online. You can be a translesbian she/her or a xe/xem agender transboy, and why would that need to reflect to your IRL appearance when all your internet friends see your profile, and a textual representation of your likely non-passing voice? Everyone on the internet experiences this in some way - you probably haven't looked at the IRL appearance of your farmer buddy whom you frequently talk to in this thread, but their "appearance" - no matter how blurred, vague, or abstract - formulates something. It is real and convincing to them, because that's all they see. If they say they're a she/her, your voice fills that avatar in with a vague female voice. I hope you see my reasoning here.

I'd even argue that's why, besides biology and restrains of the human body, many trans people (especially MtFs) do not pass. Trans celebrities pass especially well in most cases because, amongst having access to best surgeons/healthcare providers obviously, they life in the real world, where people constantly perceive them. Most other trans folks don't, and all there is to perceive is their word. Even if they post their face pics, videos, voiceclips - that's hardly convincing to the brain who's grown to see them as their avatar/online persona, and nothing else.

It also doesn't help that they live in echo chambers, regardless of what "flavour" of trans you are. If you're just surrounded by trans people with the same identity as yours, then you're blindsided (Gibes comes to mind). Since they're trans too, obviously they're not going to point out how clockable you are. Your FtM friends won't tell you that you look like a 13-year old pre-puberty boy at best. Your MtF friends won't tell you that your lack of waist and stubble is giving you away, from miles away.

Why they're chronically online, there's usually one classic reason: autism (or severe mental illness/neurodivergency). That, or severe parental neglect/abuse, or both. I'm not kidding when I say, almost every trans person I've met, they have autism/display symptoms of it, and/or had severe trauma early on in their childhood (including myself). Obviously not every autistic or mentally ill person becomes trans, so this isn't a cause-and-effect, but my best guess is that lack of social skills > being on the internet > finding a place within a community. That community happpened to be filled with trans people. Then they're trapped in the echo chamber. If you're lucky like I am to be at least aware of the echo chamber existing, you'll end up a transmedicalist (a term for someone who believes that transgender resources should be gated behind professional, medical intervention - someone many trans folks don't like). Otherwise, you'll likely be a cow on Kiwifarms, because - to the outside world - you look genuinely delusional. But when you're in that circle, you're very much a true and honest man/woman because you and your trans friends can only see a username and an avatar. The brain fills out the rest. I hope my train of thought is understandable here.

I especially want to discuss autism/neurodivegency/mental illness here, because there's a correlation between detransitioning and untreated mental illness that's so hard to ignore - and one trans people somehow overlook, including myself. Before, I was used to meeting mentally ill trans people, and thought that was pretty much the norm, and didn't really question why the two comes in pair so often. It wasn't until I really wanted to "make sure" that I was trans, where I visited r/detrans, and was astounded by what I found there. Transgenderism has pushed the agenda of "just transition!" as a quick fix instead of addressing the underlying problems, confirming whether it's really gender dysphoria, or actual trauma. Are you actually transgender, or were you sexually assaulted when you were younger and want to escape the body you were assaulted in? Are you actually transgender, or did your parents shamed you in a severely sexist way that you can't stand to be associated with your gender? Somehow, it has become transphobic to ask these questions - well, obviously, it's not good manners to say that so casually - but even clinically, questioning whether your transness was a result of trauma is seen as taboo and transphobic. People don't like being proven wrong, after all.

All of this snowballs into an ugly chaos. Imagine this. You grew up in a community that cares for you when your parents wouldn't, you live in an echo chamber, and everyone around you goes "just transition! Why not!". You can see why they're so sure about being trans, because that's literally their whole life on the net, that's what their personality has grown to revolve around: being trans. They can't see out of it, and even if they tried to, confirmation bias convinces them even further. Then surgery happens, and for some, its the cold water. The wake-up call. All of the stuff before is harmless - it doesn't have any real consequence. Not even changing your name or coming out to friends count as a consequence, because all of it is reverisible. Going on hormones doesn't even count, because in their minds, that's just them being "halfway there". Then surgery happens - something real and irreversible, then they start asking the questions they didn't want to ask beforehand, because somehow, being wrong/hurting your ego will harm you. Too late. The surgery has done worse.

I suppose, to round this off - what about me? What position am I in to say all this stuff, despite being trans myself?

PLing here, and lots of it: I'm here to "test" my transness, if you could call it that. I'm worried of falling into the trap of regret. I haven't read a thread like this before, and it was like a wake-up call to me that a.) there's so much I don't know about physical transitioning and b.) do I really want this for myself? While I did not possess dysphoria, it was strangely enjoyable for me to be assumed a man when I was a young child (like, 9 years old kind of deal). I now identify as nonbinary. I'm looking into T - and perhaps top surgery - to reflect it. The thing is, do I really want these procedures because I'm nonbinary, or because I just really like appearing masculine/androgynous, having a deeper voice, and a flatter chest, independent of being trans? What if I just enjoy androgyny, without calling myself nonbinary/trans?

It took a long time to acknowledge it, but my father had been absent or abusive almost all my life, while my mother had been enabling. I'd been helpless to it until recently. I'm also mentally ill. That is something that needs therapy, not transition. I want to make sure I'm not wanting these procedures just to escape the person that my parents berated and shamed. That being said, I'm thankful my parents vehemently disagreed with me the two times I came out, each years apart - if it weren't for them, I wouldn't be so careful about going ahead with transitioning. Most of these trans folks don't have parents that care about them. They don't go, oh, let's just wait this one out for now. I cursed my parents for being transphobic for a long time. Yeah, sure, they are - but it's somewhat a silver lining to me that, despite being transphobic, they cared for my wellbeing in a weird way, so I could be critical of my identity. Some parents of trans people kick out their trans child, then the child transitions and nobody is there to stop them - if that makes sense at all.

Transgenderism will always be a difficult topic, because it unwittingly enforces gender roles. Not a lot of trans people want to talk about this. I'd even argue that gender roles and its enforcement is what perpetuates transgenderism. One of the reasons why I am nonbinary and not a binary man is because I a.) did not wish to be a man and b.) hated the toxicity, heavy expectation & responsibility, and loneliness that comes with being a man. Yet being a woman sucks, because a.) I hate being in this body, and b.) it makes me cringe whenever I'm associated with anything feminine. Are you trans, or do you just hate enforced gender roles? Do I really hate being a woman, or is it because I don't like how I'm treated by society?

Maybe at this point, you're thinking, "you're so close to getting it". Maybe I am. Maybe I'll detrans at some point in the future and laugh at this post, thinking how foolish I'd been not to immediately make sense of it even though I was the one typing it out myself. Or maybe I'll solidify my identity and decide to go ahead, after having exhausted all the sources in the world and intensive therapy. Maybe I'll just identify as nonbinary so that I'm neither treated as man or woman, but something people have to investigate entirely altogether. Whichever way it is, I'm going to be taking my time about it, instead of going through with... whatever this is.

Thank you for reading.

ETA: Worried that people might see this as me defending my community. Not really - and if it comes off that way, it's not my intention. I'd just like to provide what people in such circles - my circle - think, and why their thought process accumulates to such decisions. Also, some of them might be just downright fetishists, and you might be right. This is just my perception, from my own community.


Punching faggots and taking names
In the SRS thread, an FTM recently posted an essay that was very copypasta worthy in my opinion and this isn't the first time I've seen that kind of thing from Kiwi Farms, so I thought we should make a thread for them.
What a fantastic and witty copypasta!

Here's my contribution:
On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, towards K. bridge.

He had successfully avoided meeting his landlady on the staircase. His garret was under the roof of a high, five-storied house and was more like a cupboard than a room. The landlady who provided him with garret, dinners, and attendance, lived on the floor below, and every time he went out he was obliged to pass her kitchen, the door of which invariably stood open. And each time he passed, the young man had a sick, frightened feeling, which made him scowl and feel ashamed. He was hopelessly in debt to his landlady, and was afraid of meeting her.

This was not because he was cowardly and abject, quite the contrary; but for some time past he had been in an overstrained irritable condition, verging on hypochondria. He had become so completely absorbed in himself, and isolated from his fellows that he dreaded meeting, not only his landlady, but anyone at all. He was crushed by poverty, but the anxieties of his position had of late ceased to weigh upon him. He had given up attending to matters of practical importance; he had lost all desire to do so. Nothing that any landlady could do had a real terror for him. But to be stopped on the stairs, to be forced to listen to her trivial, irrelevant gossip, to pestering demands for payment, threats and complaints, and to rack his brains for excuses, to prevaricate, to lie—no, rather than that, he would creep down the stairs like a cat and slip out unseen.

This evening, however, on coming out into the street, he became acutely aware of his fears.

“I want to attempt a thing like that and am frightened by these trifles,” he thought, with an odd smile. “Hm... yes, all is in a man’s hands and he lets it all slip from cowardice, that’s an axiom. It would be interesting to know what it is men are most afraid of. Taking a new step, uttering a new word is what they fear most.... But I am talking too much. It’s because I chatter that I do nothing. Or perhaps it is that I chatter because I do nothing. I’ve learned to chatter this last month, lying for days together in my den thinking... of Jack the Giant-killer. Why am I going there now? Am I capable of that? Is that serious? It is not serious at all. It’s simply a fantasy to amuse myself; a plaything! Yes, maybe it is a plaything.”

The heat in the street was terrible: and the airlessness, the bustle and the plaster, scaffolding, bricks, and dust all about him, and that special Petersburg stench, so familiar to all who are unable to get out of town in summer—all worked painfully upon the young man’s already overwrought nerves. The insufferable stench from the pot-houses, which are particularly numerous in that part of the town, and the drunken men whom he met continually, although it was a working day, completed the revolting misery of the picture. An expression of the profoundest disgust gleamed for a moment in the young man’s refined face. He was, by the way, exceptionally handsome, above the average in height, slim, well-built, with beautiful dark eyes and dark brown hair. Soon he sank into deep thought, or more accurately speaking into a complete blankness of mind; he walked along not observing what was about him and not caring to observe it. From time to time, he would mutter something, from the habit of talking to himself, to which he had just confessed. At these moments he would become conscious that his ideas were sometimes in a tangle and that he was very weak; for two days he had scarcely tasted food.

He was so badly dressed that even a man accustomed to shabbiness would have been ashamed to be seen in the street in such rags. In that quarter of the town, however, scarcely any shortcoming in dress would have created surprise. Owing to the proximity of the Hay Market, the number of establishments of bad character, the preponderance of the trading and working class population crowded in these streets and alleys in the heart of Petersburg, types so various were to be seen in the streets that no figure, however queer, would have caused surprise. But there was such accumulated bitterness and contempt in the young man’s heart, that, in spite of all the fastidiousness of youth, he minded his rags least of all in the street. It was a different matter when he met with acquaintances or with former fellow students, whom, indeed, he disliked meeting at any time. And yet when a drunken man who, for some unknown reason, was being taken somewhere in a huge waggon dragged by a heavy dray horse, suddenly shouted at him as he drove past: “Hey there, German hatter” bawling at the top of his voice and pointing at him—the young man stopped suddenly and clutched tremulously at his hat. It was a tall round hat from Zimmerman’s, but completely worn out, rusty with age, all torn and bespattered, brimless and bent on one side in a most unseemly fashion. Not shame, however, but quite another feeling akin to terror had overtaken him.

“I knew it,” he muttered in confusion, “I thought so! That’s the worst of all! Why, a stupid thing like this, the most trivial detail might spoil the whole plan. Yes, my hat is too noticeable.... It looks absurd and that makes it noticeable.... With my rags I ought to wear a cap, any sort of old pancake, but not this grotesque thing. Nobody wears such a hat, it would be noticed a mile off, it would be remembered.... What matters is that people would remember it, and that would give them a clue. For this business one should be as little conspicuous as possible.... Trifles, trifles are what matter! Why, it’s just such trifles that always ruin everything....”

He had not far to go; he knew indeed how many steps it was from the gate of his lodging house: exactly seven hundred and thirty. He had counted them once when he had been lost in dreams. At the time he had put no faith in those dreams and was only tantalising himself by their hideous but daring recklessness. Now, a month later, he had begun to look upon them differently, and, in spite of the monologues in which he jeered at his own impotence and indecision, he had involuntarily come to regard this “hideous” dream as an exploit to be attempted, although he still did not realise this himself. He was positively going now for a “rehearsal” of his project, and at every step his excitement grew more and more violent.

With a sinking heart and a nervous tremor, he went up to a huge house which on one side looked on to the canal, and on the other into the street. This house was let out in tiny tenements and was inhabited by working people of all kinds—tailors, locksmiths, cooks, Germans of sorts, girls picking up a living as best they could, petty clerks, etc. There was a continual coming and going through the two gates and in the two courtyards of the house. Three or four door-keepers were employed on the building. The young man was very glad to meet none of them, and at once slipped unnoticed through the door on the right, and up the staircase. It was a back staircase, dark and narrow, but he was familiar with it already, and knew his way, and he liked all these surroundings: in such darkness even the most inquisitive eyes were not to be dreaded.

“If I am so scared now, what would it be if it somehow came to pass that I were really going to do it?” he could not help asking himself as he reached the fourth storey. There his progress was barred by some porters who were engaged in moving furniture out of a flat. He knew that the flat had been occupied by a German clerk in the civil service, and his family. This German was moving out then, and so the fourth floor on this staircase would be untenanted except by the old woman. “That’s a good thing anyway,” he thought to himself, as he rang the bell of the old woman’s flat. The bell gave a faint tinkle as though it were made of tin and not of copper. The little flats in such houses always have bells that ring like that. He had forgotten the note of that bell, and now its peculiar tinkle seemed to remind him of something and to bring it clearly before him.... He started, his nerves were terribly overstrained by now. In a little while, the door was opened a tiny crack: the old woman eyed her visitor with evident distrust through the crack, and nothing could be seen but her little eyes, glittering in the darkness. But, seeing a number of people on the landing, she grew bolder, and opened the door wide. The young man stepped into the dark entry, which was partitioned off from the tiny kitchen. The old woman stood facing him in silence and looking inquiringly at him. She was a diminutive, withered up old woman of sixty, with sharp malignant eyes and a sharp little nose. Her colourless, somewhat grizzled hair was thickly smeared with oil, and she wore no kerchief over it. Round her thin long neck, which looked like a hen’s leg, was knotted some sort of flannel rag, and, in spite of the heat, there hung flapping on her shoulders, a mangy fur cape, yellow with age. The old woman coughed and groaned at every instant. The young man must have looked at her with a rather peculiar expression, for a gleam of mistrust came into her eyes again.

“Raskolnikov, a student, I came here a month ago,” the young man made haste to mutter, with a half bow, remembering that he ought to be more polite.

“I remember, my good sir, I remember quite well your coming here,” the old woman said distinctly, still keeping her inquiring eyes on his face.

“And here... I am again on the same errand,” Raskolnikov continued, a little disconcerted and surprised at the old woman’s mistrust. “Perhaps she is always like that though, only I did not notice it the other time,” he thought with an uneasy feeling.

The old woman paused, as though hesitating; then stepped on one side, and pointing to the door of the room, she said, letting her visitor pass in front of her:

“Step in, my good sir.”

The little room into which the young man walked, with yellow paper on the walls, geraniums and muslin curtains in the windows, was brightly lighted up at that moment by the setting sun.

“So the sun will shine like this then too!” flashed as it were by chance through Raskolnikov’s mind, and with a rapid glance he scanned everything in the room, trying as far as possible to notice and remember its arrangement. But there was nothing special in the room. The furniture, all very old and of yellow wood, consisted of a sofa with a huge bent wooden back, an oval table in front of the sofa, a dressing-table with a looking-glass fixed on it between the windows, chairs along the walls and two or three half-penny prints in yellow frames, representing German damsels with birds in their hands—that was all. In the corner a light was burning before a small ikon. Everything was very clean; the floor and the furniture were brightly polished; everything shone.

“Lizaveta’s work,” thought the young man. There was not a speck of dust to be seen in the whole flat.

“It’s in the houses of spiteful old widows that one finds such cleanliness,” Raskolnikov thought again, and he stole a curious glance at the cotton curtain over the door leading into another tiny room, in which stood the old woman’s bed and chest of drawers and into which he had never looked before. These two rooms made up the whole flat.

“What do you want?” the old woman said severely, coming into the room and, as before, standing in front of him so as to look him straight in the face.

“I’ve brought something to pawn here,” and he drew out of his pocket an old-fashioned flat silver watch, on the back of which was engraved a globe; the chain was of steel.

“But the time is up for your last pledge. The month was up the day before yesterday.”

“I will bring you the interest for another month; wait a little.”

“But that’s for me to do as I please, my good sir, to wait or to sell your pledge at once.”

“How much will you give me for the watch, Alyona Ivanovna?”

“You come with such trifles, my good sir, it’s scarcely worth anything. I gave you two roubles last time for your ring and one could buy it quite new at a jeweler’s for a rouble and a half.”

“Give me four roubles for it, I shall redeem it, it was my father’s. I shall be getting some money soon.”

“A rouble and a half, and interest in advance, if you like!”

“A rouble and a half!” cried the young man.

“Please yourself”—and the old woman handed him back the watch. The young man took it, and was so angry that he was on the point of going away; but checked himself at once, remembering that there was nowhere else he could go, and that he had had another object also in coming.

“Hand it over,” he said roughly.

The old woman fumbled in her pocket for her keys, and disappeared behind the curtain into the other room. The young man, left standing alone in the middle of the room, listened inquisitively, thinking. He could hear her unlocking the chest of drawers.

“It must be the top drawer,” he reflected. “So she carries the keys in a pocket on the right. All in one bunch on a steel ring.... And there’s one key there, three times as big as all the others, with deep notches; that can’t be the key of the chest of drawers... then there must be some other chest or strong-box... that’s worth knowing. Strong-boxes always have keys like that... but how degrading it all is.”

The old woman came back.

“Here, sir: as we say ten copecks the rouble a month, so I must take fifteen copecks from a rouble and a half for the month in advance. But for the two roubles I lent you before, you owe me now twenty copecks on the same reckoning in advance. That makes thirty-five copecks altogether. So I must give you a rouble and fifteen copecks for the watch. Here it is.”

“What! only a rouble and fifteen copecks now!”

“Just so.”

The young man did not dispute it and took the money. He looked at the old woman, and was in no hurry to get away, as though there was still something he wanted to say or to do, but he did not himself quite know what.

“I may be bringing you something else in a day or two, Alyona Ivanovna—a valuable thing—silver—a cigarette-box, as soon as I get it back from a friend...” he broke off in confusion.

“Well, we will talk about it then, sir.”

“Good-bye—are you always at home alone, your sister is not here with you?” He asked her as casually as possible as he went out into the passage.

“What business is she of yours, my good sir?”

“Oh, nothing particular, I simply asked. You are too quick.... Good-day, Alyona Ivanovna.”

Raskolnikov went out in complete confusion. This confusion became more and more intense. As he went down the stairs, he even stopped short, two or three times, as though suddenly struck by some thought. When he was in the street he cried out, “Oh, God, how loathsome it all is! and can I, can I possibly.... No, it’s nonsense, it’s rubbish!” he added resolutely. “And how could such an atrocious thing come into my head? What filthy things my heart is capable of. Yes, filthy above all, disgusting, loathsome, loathsome!—and for a whole month I’ve been....” But no words, no exclamations, could express his agitation. The feeling of intense repulsion, which had begun to oppress and torture his heart while he was on his way to the old woman, had by now reached such a pitch and had taken such a definite form that he did not know what to do with himself to escape from his wretchedness. He walked along the pavement like a drunken man, regardless of the passers-by, and jostling against them, and only came to his senses when he was in the next street. Looking round, he noticed that he was standing close to a tavern which was entered by steps leading from the pavement to the basement. At that instant two drunken men came out at the door, and abusing and supporting one another, they mounted the steps. Without stopping to think, Raskolnikov went down the steps at once. Till that moment he had never been into a tavern, but now he felt giddy and was tormented by a burning thirst. He longed for a drink of cold beer, and attributed his sudden weakness to the want of food. He sat down at a sticky little table in a dark and dirty corner; ordered some beer, and eagerly drank off the first glassful. At once he felt easier; and his thoughts became clear.

“All that’s nonsense,” he said hopefully, “and there is nothing in it all to worry about! It’s simply physical derangement. Just a glass of beer, a piece of dry bread—and in one moment the brain is stronger, the mind is clearer and the will is firm! Phew, how utterly petty it all is!”

But in spite of this scornful reflection, he was by now looking cheerful as though he were suddenly set free from a terrible burden: and he gazed round in a friendly way at the people in the room. But even at that moment he had a dim foreboding that this happier frame of mind was also not normal.

There were few people at the time in the tavern. Besides the two drunken men he had met on the steps, a group consisting of about five men and a girl with a concertina had gone out at the same time. Their departure left the room quiet and rather empty. The persons still in the tavern were a man who appeared to be an artisan, drunk, but not extremely so, sitting before a pot of beer, and his companion, a huge, stout man with a grey beard, in a short full-skirted coat. He was very drunk: and had dropped asleep on the bench; every now and then, he began as though in his sleep, cracking his fingers, with his arms wide apart and the upper part of his body bounding about on the bench, while he hummed some meaningless refrain, trying to recall some such lines as these:

“His wife a year he fondly loved
His wife a—a year he—fondly loved.”

Or suddenly waking up again:

“Walking along the crowded row
He met the one he used to know.”

But no one shared his enjoyment: his silent companion looked with positive hostility and mistrust at all these manifestations. There was another man in the room who looked somewhat like a retired government clerk. He was sitting apart, now and then sipping from his pot and looking round at the company. He, too, appeared to be in some agitation.


frog always = leader of the frog army
I unironically believe that anime is a weapon against western men to create child molesting eunuchs. I think that the Japanese have helped normalized sexualization of children in the west through their media. They have a culture where it's perfectly acceptable to grab ass 10 year olds on the train and child pornography was so common in Japan during the western occupation that it led to the Americans enforcing the anti-pornography ban which is why genitals in Japan are censored to this day. They are fucking creatures completely irreconcilable to the west and America's mercy was wasted on them when it should have gone to the Germans instead. We would lose nothing having a Soviet Japan vs what we have today.


frog always = leader of the frog army
My best friend since 3rd grade trooned out to my shock. The guy didn't really have a mother, the father wasn't much of a father and he wasn't much of a son to be fair. The father went through a few wives but none mothered him. He also did a lot of party drugs from 18( hes now 31). Before he told me he wanted to troon, he visited my family for the first time in years. He was acting a little creepy and wanted hugs from everyone. Later I visited him with my ex and he was trying really hard to sound like a woman but he just had the creepy troon voice. He would come on strong towards women and wanted to have a threesome with his then live-in girlfriend. He tried flirting with me over text to get me to have a threesome and then moved on to my girlfriend. I don't think I can describe the discomfort I had around him at that time of how weird he looked and how he was acting. I ceased contact with him. My ex did not and I dropped her off to spend the night there so she wouldnt bitch about visiting my family. When in the house, he looked different due to the estrogen and acted worse than before. I don't think I can describe the response from brain and body to this, I think it was a flight response mixed with revulsion. I never spoke to him again. My ex texted me drunk out of the blue a few months later, telling me he was visiting her and her got her drunk. She was telling me that he was pressuring her to have sex with him. I kept telling her to say no and she kept saying she would feel guilty for saying no... because he kept telling her it made him sad. She ended up letting him cuddle with her.... while the guy's wife was still back home 4 hours away. As an aside, the father ran a successful business and wanted his son to take it over. With the trooning and the physical and mental changes with it, the father will no longer offer it to him. The father does not think his son is capable of running it and the son was making customers uncomfortable.

The second is less interesting. He is basically a gay puerto rican man that transitioned. He is self aware about his mental issues, makes off color jokes about niggers and trannies, and doesnt incessantly mention being a tranny, has a stable job, doesn't have sex for months into a relationship, and doesn't use drugs. He got on the tranny wagon before it was cool which I think is why he''s like that beyond not being an autogynephile.

The third is my one ex girlfriend. Her mother was mentally ill to the point where she made her own loosely christian religion. She believed society was full of evil so she kept her kids in the house and homeschooled them until they went to community college. This fucked the kids up. The mother allegedly held the daughters to a higher standard than the sons. My ex interpreted that has her mother hating women. Now she claims that had no influence on her wanting to be a man but I think it does. Despite not ever going on tumblr, she had a similar outlook on life as tublrinas. She basically wanted to become Ciel from Black Butler. She already looked like a bit titted tomboy but kept gaining weight due to her sedentary lifestyle which made her look more female. She wanted to get her breasts removed but was smart enough to not want a fake dick. This combined with her constant excuses for not pulling her weight in the relationship ended up destroying it. Her insane mother, her siblings too scared to be honest with one another, pop culture, and yaoi made her want to transition and sucked her into the leftist beliefs of convenience. She honestly believes that getting on testosterone and having her breasts removed will fix her life despite her eating poorly, refusing to get job that isnt her drawing art(and refusing to "compromise the integrity of her art"), socializing, and exercising. She keeps gaining weight and hasnt left her father's apartment in a year. Her one beta male brother plays breadtube on the den TV which has entrenched her even more. She thinks her mentally ill mother is representation of christianity and "the right" which seems to have had a significant impact on her politics. Despite discovering her mother agrees with her on everything but trannies(an emotions-based christian and overbearing mother wanting the state to run everyone's lives? Who couldve predicted this?), she still sees her as some "right wing evangelical" stereotype. I feel like I spent 4 years and thousands of dollars for some mentally ill woman to sit on the couch and watch H3 and philip defranco and use "dysphoria" as an excuse to not be productive. She couldve lost weight and looked a lot more masculine. She couldve stopped consuming the leftist, self affirming propaganda but instead chose to start petty political arguments. I swear this tranny shit is because of pop culture and bad parenting. Lessons learned I wish I knew a decade ago. This last one is a rambling mess.


frog always = leader of the frog army
Like I mentioned earlier, I have a few good friends that are still pretty involved in fandom (mostly mid-range millennials like me). The interesting thing is that quite a few of them who are more heavily involved are in what I'd call the 'constructive' side of fandom; one woman has a high-up role managing a long-running and successful con, and another does similar logistical stuff that I won't go into because PL, but also useful for the running of fandom. They and the crowd they move in are not into anything like this. I know for a fact that if I bring up "kinning" to them (and I might actually do that lol) they will either roll their eyes or look at me blankly. They also have reasonably moderate political viewpoints and can handle disagreement without calling you a Nazi.

The reason I say all this is because I think the more the new wave of younger "all fandom is political, characters are real, abusive shippers DNI, I identify as Naruto, fat disabled queer system, fae/fae pronouns!" push out the adults (I don't mean just in terms of age), and the more stable people doing the thankless behind-the-scenes work give up and leave because they are tired of the crazies, the more the structure that makes much of modern fandom possible is going to collapse, and these morons have no idea because they take it for granted.

Sorry for rambling. It's kind of a long-term interest of mine to observe the way organizations or groups open themselves to trannies and genderspecials and do everything to accommodate them, and then gradually lose the support or membership of the boring normie people who were actually doing the work because those people get too uncomfortable and do not feel respected. And then they're left with no hardworking normies and a bunch of blue-haired NEETS who have panic attacks when you ask them to make a phone call. I think we are going to be seeing more and more of that in various progressive spaces in the coming years, and probably a lot of women's sports as well.


frog always = leader of the frog army
The community of Bikini Bottom is attempting to construct a new recreational area in Jellyfish Fields. It seems like a pleasurable proposal; however, 30,500 acres (about 47 square miles) of natural land will be demolished, and the wildlife there will have to find a new habitat. SpongeBob immediately speaks out against this proposal, but the community only laughs at him in contempt. SpongeBob SquarePants attempts to rally up supporters for his decision, in which he does, with his only supporter being Patrick Star, who thinks SpongeBob is trying to form a street gang. Patrick does not prove to be useful, so SpongeBob gives Patrick the straightforward task of rallying up supporters; Patrick is given a pen and a notebook for signatures and keeping track. SpongeBob gives himself the goal of contacting the mayor to converse the concern, and obliging him to sign the petition so no destruction will take place. However, after SpongeBob illegally tracks the mayor's location, SpongeBob's house is raided by the Bikini Bottom Police Department, who arrest Gary and accidently shoot Squidward in his leg. However, SpongeBob spent the whole day a tSeashell Park. At the end of the day, SpongeBob checks up on Patrick to see that he hasn't been doing what he had ordered him to, but instead drawing pictures of with the notebook SpongeBob gave him. Enraged, SpongeBob decides to go home, however, he is immediately arrested on the spot by the police force.

SpongeBob SquarePants is taken to the Bikini Bottom Jail, where he is told why he is being held in custody, for an illegitimate conspiracy act against the townspeople and the mayor. After SpongeBob gets booked, he contacts Mr. Krabs, in hopes that he could get him a superb criminal defense attorney. The legal representative shows up, but to SpongeBob's surprise, the lawyer was Patrick Star. SpongeBob is then taken into questioning with the police, now having his lawyer present. Patrick utterly ruins and misunderstands SpongeBob, telling the police he wanted to "destroy the parks construction in Jellyfish Fields so that the children wouldn’t get stung to death by jellyfish that transmit HIV".

SpongeBob then spends his first night in jail, and relies on a bail bondsman to post his bail the next day. As soon as SpongeBob gets home the next morning from jail, SpongeBob's notices that his house had been vandalized. On the adjacent street, two police officers prepare to drive off. SpongeBob stops them and asks about his house. The officers snicker at him and then throw SpongeBob's wallet at him and drive off. Meanwhile, Patrick Star and Sandy Cheeks decide to visit Squidward Tentacles in the Bikini Bottom Hospital. The surgeons inform them that Squidward will be fine, and that the bullet only caused tissue damage to his muscle; lucky that it didn't penetrate an artery. The surgeons also inform them that Squidward will need to pay for physical therapy in order to fully regain use of his leg. Upon exiting the hospital, Sandy receives a text message from SpongeBob, informing her of his situation and asking if he could stay at her treedome for a bit


frog always = leader of the frog army
It seems like nowadays these days everywhere I go everywhere I see there is a cult of personality and that personality is basically you know it's like it's a revolving it's it's like a revolving system of planets you know it's like it's around and round but the thing that it's around is the violent public sodomization of autistic children of retarded like I mean drooling sprinting freaking out like like real real retards like that show called real monsters with the guy with the eyeballs in his hands but it's you know it's real retards and it has I don't know meatballs in his hands or something but he's retarded and artistic and that's the point and and I just don't think I personally you know I'm not I'm not going to sit here and pretend I'm the moral arbiter of anything but I don't feel like it is conducive to a functioning society to a permit to okay to passe to you know just generally in general give a free pass to people who want to violently and repeatedly rape autistic children in public like in grocery stores you know in Walmart bouncing them off the f****** carriages it's insane


frog always = leader of the frog army
He's one of my favorite YouTubers and I think I'd let him keep fucking dogs if it meant I got more reviews. He needs to be faster, though.