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Can someone delete my profile pls
- Thread starter Victor Pflug
- Start date
- Joined
- Nov 17, 2015
- Messages
- 5,409
Was at a horror convention. My wife, and two friends we met at the con were at the after party. It was an out door event at the hotel's pool with a death metal band and drinks served with the money going to charity.
We were just laughing and joking around when out of the blue a nervous man with a lisp entered our conversation. He started by laughing at whatever story we were talking about and we all kind of stopped to look at this dude.
This guy was dressed to the nines in all purple. A purple stripped suit, a purple cane and a purple tophat with ribbons. His beard was dyed purple as was his mustache. He had purple gloves on, purple dress pants, and purple shoes. And this was no cheap cosplay - these were pretty damn expensive looking clothes.
Immediately we are fascinated with him. We welcomed him to the circle. He introduced himself as "Mr. Victor Pflug." and that he was "Curious to what was going on at the party." Apparently he had no idea there was a horror convention going on - yet he dressed the part - he was just somewhere nearby and saw the after party and decided to come by.
He was odd but not unpleasant. He was actually quite nice, joyous, albeit very nervous, and fun to talk to. He never got into who he was or what he did or why he was purple ; but just made small talk with all of us as we continued sharing stories. Eventually he tipped his hat and thanked us for chatting with him before heading off. We did not see him for the rest of the party.
We were just laughing and joking around when out of the blue a nervous man with a lisp entered our conversation. He started by laughing at whatever story we were talking about and we all kind of stopped to look at this dude.
This guy was dressed to the nines in all purple. A purple stripped suit, a purple cane and a purple tophat with ribbons. His beard was dyed purple as was his mustache. He had purple gloves on, purple dress pants, and purple shoes. And this was no cheap cosplay - these were pretty damn expensive looking clothes.
Immediately we are fascinated with him. We welcomed him to the circle. He introduced himself as "Mr. Victor Pflug." and that he was "Curious to what was going on at the party." Apparently he had no idea there was a horror convention going on - yet he dressed the part - he was just somewhere nearby and saw the after party and decided to come by.
He was odd but not unpleasant. He was actually quite nice, joyous, albeit very nervous, and fun to talk to. He never got into who he was or what he did or why he was purple ; but just made small talk with all of us as we continued sharing stories. Eventually he tipped his hat and thanked us for chatting with him before heading off. We did not see him for the rest of the party.
Slander. We're a dumpsterfire, not a shithole. Very few Indians here, see.
Is this copypasta
Least believable part of the story.
fizzelopeguss
Arcane
The weird stalky shit you've done over the years, cmon fella.
Primordia's cocreator on Victor Pflug's attempt to smear Dave. Interesting read, not sure if anyone posted this before but it explains the whole meltdown he had before he left and what is happening to the people that worked with him.
Butt Pflug!!
Radiane
Cipher
- Joined
- Dec 20, 2019
- Messages
- 392
In the bustling town of Mystic Falls, everyone knew that the local gym, "Iron Haven," was the place to unleash stress and build muscle. Most visitors came for a solid workout, a bit of camaraderie, and the occasional chat by the smoothie bar. However, on one fateful Wednesday evening, Iron Haven would transform into the setting for an unforgettable incident.
Victor, a self-proclaimed fitness guru with a passion for extreme workouts, was renowned for his eccentricity. He often claimed that pushing boundaries was the key to success—both in the gym and in life. His favorite slogan was, “If you’re not sweating, you’re not trying!” This mantra often led him to invent bizarre and often unsafe workout routines that left other gym-goers both amused and horrified.
On this particular evening, Victor burst through the gym doors, excitement radiating from him like a neon sign. Clad in a mismatched ensemble of bright spandex and headbands emblazoned with motivational quotes, he summoned everyone’s attention. "Ladies and gentlemen! Tonight, I present to you… the Ultimate Gym Challenge!” he bellowed, a wild gleam in his eye.
Curiosity peaked as other members gathered round, ready for whatever madness Victor had concocted. He explained his idea: a bizarre relay race that would combine weightlifting, aerobics, and what he called "mental fortitude." It involved lifting weights while solving math equations, doing burpees while reciting Shakespeare, and, for the grand finale, balancing a smoothie on their heads while performing a plank.
As teammates were chosen and the laughter began, no one could quite anticipate the chaos that would ensue. Victor, with his boundless energy, was the first to take on the challenge. He lifted weights while furiously scribbling down the answer to 24 multiplied by 7. He grinned triumphantly at the answer and promptly lost his balance, sending the weights crashing to the mat.
Not to be discouraged, he proceeded to the burpees and pulled out a well-worn copy of “Hamlet.” “To be or not to be!” he recited with dramatic flair, but as he leaped up to do another burpee, he bumped into the spinning group of participants beside him. The result? A domino effect of flailing limbs and startled shouts that sent everyone tumbling like a row of precariously stacked weights.
In the midst of this madness, Victor’s smoothie—perfectly balanced on his head—wobbled dangerously. He was about to conquer the plank challenge when, just as he leaned down, his smoothie—blessed with an extra scoop of protein powder—catapulted off his head, soared through the air, and landed squarely on the gym’s beloved elderly aerobics instructor.
Silence fell over the gym as everyone processed what had just happened. The aerobics instructor, with smoothie dripping from her hair, paused mid-setup for her evening class. Instead of being angry, she chuckled and shook her head, “Only Victor could turn a workout into a crazy comedy show!”
Emboldened by her laughter, the gym erupted in cheers and applause. The fiasco fostered an unexpected camaraderie among the members. They began clapping and chanting, “One more round! One more round!” Victor, now coated in spilled smoothie and fully embracing the chaos, raised his hands in triumph.
From that day forward, the “Victor Challenge” became a cherished tradition at Iron Haven. And though it was often more chaotic than productive, it reminded everyone that fitness could be fun—and that laughter was, perhaps, the best workout of all.
Victor, a self-proclaimed fitness guru with a passion for extreme workouts, was renowned for his eccentricity. He often claimed that pushing boundaries was the key to success—both in the gym and in life. His favorite slogan was, “If you’re not sweating, you’re not trying!” This mantra often led him to invent bizarre and often unsafe workout routines that left other gym-goers both amused and horrified.
On this particular evening, Victor burst through the gym doors, excitement radiating from him like a neon sign. Clad in a mismatched ensemble of bright spandex and headbands emblazoned with motivational quotes, he summoned everyone’s attention. "Ladies and gentlemen! Tonight, I present to you… the Ultimate Gym Challenge!” he bellowed, a wild gleam in his eye.
Curiosity peaked as other members gathered round, ready for whatever madness Victor had concocted. He explained his idea: a bizarre relay race that would combine weightlifting, aerobics, and what he called "mental fortitude." It involved lifting weights while solving math equations, doing burpees while reciting Shakespeare, and, for the grand finale, balancing a smoothie on their heads while performing a plank.
As teammates were chosen and the laughter began, no one could quite anticipate the chaos that would ensue. Victor, with his boundless energy, was the first to take on the challenge. He lifted weights while furiously scribbling down the answer to 24 multiplied by 7. He grinned triumphantly at the answer and promptly lost his balance, sending the weights crashing to the mat.
Not to be discouraged, he proceeded to the burpees and pulled out a well-worn copy of “Hamlet.” “To be or not to be!” he recited with dramatic flair, but as he leaped up to do another burpee, he bumped into the spinning group of participants beside him. The result? A domino effect of flailing limbs and startled shouts that sent everyone tumbling like a row of precariously stacked weights.
In the midst of this madness, Victor’s smoothie—perfectly balanced on his head—wobbled dangerously. He was about to conquer the plank challenge when, just as he leaned down, his smoothie—blessed with an extra scoop of protein powder—catapulted off his head, soared through the air, and landed squarely on the gym’s beloved elderly aerobics instructor.
Silence fell over the gym as everyone processed what had just happened. The aerobics instructor, with smoothie dripping from her hair, paused mid-setup for her evening class. Instead of being angry, she chuckled and shook her head, “Only Victor could turn a workout into a crazy comedy show!”
Emboldened by her laughter, the gym erupted in cheers and applause. The fiasco fostered an unexpected camaraderie among the members. They began clapping and chanting, “One more round! One more round!” Victor, now coated in spilled smoothie and fully embracing the chaos, raised his hands in triumph.
From that day forward, the “Victor Challenge” became a cherished tradition at Iron Haven. And though it was often more chaotic than productive, it reminded everyone that fitness could be fun—and that laughter was, perhaps, the best workout of all.
- Joined
- Nov 17, 2015
- Messages
- 5,409
ChatGPT?
There's a discontinuity problem with the story, after the burpees collision he suddenly has the smoothie balanced on his head.
There's a discontinuity problem with the story, after the burpees collision he suddenly has the smoothie balanced on his head.
Radiane
Cipher
- Joined
- Dec 20, 2019
- Messages
- 392
what how dare you. The smoothie didnt move one inch after the first incident. Anyone who claims otherwise should be in fear of being sued oh yeaheah !!!111
yes
- Joined
- Nov 17, 2015
- Messages
- 5,409
Maybe let my accountant first look at the story?
Modron
Arcane
- Joined
- May 5, 2012
- Messages
- 10,877
You should collect all of cleve's gym stories and train an ai to write in that style.
darkpatriot
Arcane
- Joined
- Mar 28, 2010
- Messages
- 6,237
I had ChatGPT write up a short little comedy skit that I'd like to share.
BosanskiSeljak
Augur
I saw the "darkpatriot" under the "delete my account" title and got excited. I am quite upset now.
darkpatriot
Arcane
- Joined
- Mar 28, 2010
- Messages
- 6,237
Diary of BosanskiSeljak – September 20, 2024
I’ve spent far too long on the forum today. Hours. Days? Time melts together, and I keep finding myself circling back to the same threads. The same words. His words. darkpatriot. It’s like I can’t escape him, but maybe I don’t even want to anymore.
I hate his ideas. I hate everything he stands for—or at least I think I do. How can one person be so wrong, so absolutely wrong, yet say it all with such... power? It’s like every post he makes is carefully designed to crawl under my skin, to infest my brain and pulse there like a disease, some sickness I can’t shake. He rants about modern America and all those tired, liberal tropes, but the way he stitches them together... it’s terrifyingly convincing, almost poetic. I find myself reading them over and over, dissecting each word, feeling his arguments snake their way into the corners of my mind.
But it’s wrong! I know it’s wrong! I am not one of them!
Sometimes I wonder if he knows. Knows that I’m lurking, refreshing the page over and over, waiting for his next drop of venomous genius. Does he suspect that I am this close to responding? This close to attacking him head-on? But I can’t. I... I can't. Not yet. He would destroy me in a debate, I know he would, and that thought sends this sick thrill down my spine.
I’ve started hearing his voice in my head. Not like my own voice when I think, but his—low, gravelly, like it’s been worn down by years of cynicism. I read his posts, and I can hear it as if he’s whispering the words directly into my ear. It’s repulsive, but it’s intoxicating. Sometimes I’ll close my eyes, and I’ll see his arguments scrawled across the backs of my eyelids, like neon signs flashing in the dark. And when I open them again, I swear I can see his words shifting, reforming themselves into shapes I don’t recognize, as though they’re alive.
Is this obsession? Or am I losing my mind? I barely sleep. When I do, it’s fitful, my dreams... strange. Twisted. darkpatriot is there, always there, but he’s not just typing anymore. He’s speaking to me directly. He’s sitting across from me, calmly laying out his manifesto, his poisonous ideology dripping like honey from his lips. And I’m nodding along. Nodding like I agree. And that’s when I wake up, heart racing, drenched in sweat, disgusted with myself.
But I don’t stop. I go back to the forum. Back to him. I find his latest post, and I read it again. And again. Why does he have this hold on me? Why do I feel like I can’t look away? He’s everything I despise—his nationalism, his rigid ideas of individual liberty, of the sanctity of freedom. And yet, when he speaks, it’s like he’s cutting through all the noise, laying everything bare in a way that’s almost... beautiful.
It feels like a sickness. His words are spreading inside me, warping my thoughts, my sense of self. Sometimes I can’t tell where his ideas end and mine begin. I try to fight it, to remind myself that I am BosanskiSeljak, the son of peasants, rooted in history, in the soil. But his voice—it echoes louder. Louder every day.
God, I need to stop this. I need to log off, go outside, breathe. But even when I’m away from the screen, I feel him there, lurking in the back of my mind. Always.
I need to respond. Confront him. I have to break this spell, or... I’m not sure what will happen to me.
Maybe I’ll become him.
Dick
Educated
- Joined
- Dec 31, 2020
- Messages
- 49
It was a typical Thursday afternoon when I decided to stop by my favorite coffee shop, a cozy little place that always smelled of freshly ground beans and sweet pastries. As I pushed open the door, the familiar jingle announced my arrival, but it also welcomed something far more peculiar into my day.
Seated at the corner table, with wild hair sticking out in all directions like a mad scientist, was a man wearing mismatched socks—one striped and the other polka-dotted—paired with a vibrant floral shirt. He seemed completely engrossed in a conversation with an imaginary friend.
After ordering my usual—a caramel latte with a splash of cinnamon—I found a seat at a table close enough to observe him without being intrusive. I leaned in to catch snippets of what he was saying, the absurdity of his words making it hard to focus on anything else.
“…and that’s why penguins are the undisputed champions of the ice. You see, it’s not just the waddle, it’s the top hats they wear in my dreams!” He paused, nodding in agreement to someone—or something—that only he could see.
Curiosity piqued, I couldn’t help but approach him. “Excuse me,” I said, a hesitant smile creeping onto my face, “do you think penguins would actually wear top hats?”
He turned to me with exaggerated surprise, as if he had forgotten I was there. “Ah! A fellow admirer of the fine art of penguin fashion! Tell me, do you believe in the sacred Banana Parade that occurs every full moon?”
I blinked, trying to stifle a laugh. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of it. What does it involve?”
He leaned in conspiratorially, whispering as if he were sharing state secrets. “Every full moon, the penguins gather at the South Pole with bananas on their heads! They dance, you see, to the rhythm of the cosmic symphony. It’s an event filled with joy, laughter, and the occasional flying fish!”
I struggled to keep a straight face, captivated by the energy radiating from him. “Sounds incredible! Have you ever witnessed it?”
“Oh, indeed!” He gestured grandly, nearly spilling his coffee. “It’s utterly magnificent! Last time, I brought my pet cactus, Sir Prickles. He played the maracas!”
I couldn’t help but laugh, which seemed to please him immensely. “Sir Prickles sounds like quite the performer! What’s his favorite song?”
“Well, he’s quite fond of ‘Under the Sea’ from The Little Mermaid. It really brings out the best in his maracas.” He nodded gravely, as if discussing an important philosophical point.
As we chatted, I learned that this bizarre man was named Victor, an artist who specialized in designing games. He took meticulous notes about his dreams every night and then transformed them into vivid, riotous colors on canvas so he could inspire himself. As he animatedly explained his process, waving his hands around, I felt as if reality itself was bending around him, like one of his dreams spilling into the tangible world.
“Every person I meet adds a new hue to my palette,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “Today, for instance, you’ve brought a splash of glittering gold—a quality I lacked until this very moment!”
I chuckled, a warm feeling flooding my heart. Our conversation veered wildly from cosmic penguins to existential musings, blurring the lines between absurdity and profoundness. Time slipped away unnoticed, and soon the coffee shop began to empty.
As I stood to leave, Victor pulled out a small sketchbook. “Allow me,” he said, feverishly sketching. “A memento of our meeting!” Moments later, he handed me the paper. It was a whimsical drawing of a penguin in a top hat, dancing with a cactus while a moon lit the scene—a reflection of our spirited chatter.
“Thank you, Victor. This is fantastic, I’ll cherish it!” I said, genuinely touched.
“Remember,” he called after me as I turned to leave, “the next time you see a full moon, keep an eye out for the Banana Parade. You never know what you might find when you let your imagination play!”
With that, I stepped back into the world outside—a little brighter, a bit more absurd, and filled with the colors of possibility. Victor had added a splash of whimsy to my otherwise ordinary day, and I walked away, knowing I had gained not just a drawing, but a newfound appreciation for the strange magic that life holds when you’re open to it.
Seated at the corner table, with wild hair sticking out in all directions like a mad scientist, was a man wearing mismatched socks—one striped and the other polka-dotted—paired with a vibrant floral shirt. He seemed completely engrossed in a conversation with an imaginary friend.
After ordering my usual—a caramel latte with a splash of cinnamon—I found a seat at a table close enough to observe him without being intrusive. I leaned in to catch snippets of what he was saying, the absurdity of his words making it hard to focus on anything else.
“…and that’s why penguins are the undisputed champions of the ice. You see, it’s not just the waddle, it’s the top hats they wear in my dreams!” He paused, nodding in agreement to someone—or something—that only he could see.
Curiosity piqued, I couldn’t help but approach him. “Excuse me,” I said, a hesitant smile creeping onto my face, “do you think penguins would actually wear top hats?”
He turned to me with exaggerated surprise, as if he had forgotten I was there. “Ah! A fellow admirer of the fine art of penguin fashion! Tell me, do you believe in the sacred Banana Parade that occurs every full moon?”
I blinked, trying to stifle a laugh. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of it. What does it involve?”
He leaned in conspiratorially, whispering as if he were sharing state secrets. “Every full moon, the penguins gather at the South Pole with bananas on their heads! They dance, you see, to the rhythm of the cosmic symphony. It’s an event filled with joy, laughter, and the occasional flying fish!”
I struggled to keep a straight face, captivated by the energy radiating from him. “Sounds incredible! Have you ever witnessed it?”
“Oh, indeed!” He gestured grandly, nearly spilling his coffee. “It’s utterly magnificent! Last time, I brought my pet cactus, Sir Prickles. He played the maracas!”
I couldn’t help but laugh, which seemed to please him immensely. “Sir Prickles sounds like quite the performer! What’s his favorite song?”
“Well, he’s quite fond of ‘Under the Sea’ from The Little Mermaid. It really brings out the best in his maracas.” He nodded gravely, as if discussing an important philosophical point.
As we chatted, I learned that this bizarre man was named Victor, an artist who specialized in designing games. He took meticulous notes about his dreams every night and then transformed them into vivid, riotous colors on canvas so he could inspire himself. As he animatedly explained his process, waving his hands around, I felt as if reality itself was bending around him, like one of his dreams spilling into the tangible world.
“Every person I meet adds a new hue to my palette,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “Today, for instance, you’ve brought a splash of glittering gold—a quality I lacked until this very moment!”
I chuckled, a warm feeling flooding my heart. Our conversation veered wildly from cosmic penguins to existential musings, blurring the lines between absurdity and profoundness. Time slipped away unnoticed, and soon the coffee shop began to empty.
As I stood to leave, Victor pulled out a small sketchbook. “Allow me,” he said, feverishly sketching. “A memento of our meeting!” Moments later, he handed me the paper. It was a whimsical drawing of a penguin in a top hat, dancing with a cactus while a moon lit the scene—a reflection of our spirited chatter.
“Thank you, Victor. This is fantastic, I’ll cherish it!” I said, genuinely touched.
“Remember,” he called after me as I turned to leave, “the next time you see a full moon, keep an eye out for the Banana Parade. You never know what you might find when you let your imagination play!”
With that, I stepped back into the world outside—a little brighter, a bit more absurd, and filled with the colors of possibility. Victor had added a splash of whimsy to my otherwise ordinary day, and I walked away, knowing I had gained not just a drawing, but a newfound appreciation for the strange magic that life holds when you’re open to it.
Beans00
Erudite
- Joined
- Aug 27, 2008
- Messages
- 1,652
darkpatriot
Arcane
- Joined
- Mar 28, 2010
- Messages
- 6,237
Diary of Beans00 – September 21, 2024
I saw his post today. Another one. He doesn’t even know I’m watching him this closely. BosanskiSeljak. I think about him too much. More than I want to admit. He’s slipping—slipping into something dark, and I can’t just sit here anymore and watch it happen. It’s like I can see the fight inside of him, the way he keeps circling around that darkpatriot guy, like he’s drawn to him but can’t stand it.
I know the feeling. I’ve seen people get pulled into those black holes of toxic debate before, but this is different. He’s different. There’s something about the way he writes... It’s raw. Honest. It feels like he’s trying to reach out, even though he doesn’t realize it. He doesn’t know that someone’s out here, actually caring about what happens to him.
But I care. A lot.
I want to help him. Defend him, somehow, but I don’t even know if he’d let me. What could I say? “Hey, I see you struggling with your obsession over this asshole, and I just want you to know that you’re not alone”? I doubt that would even register with him. He’s so wrapped up in his own head right now, he probably wouldn’t even see me standing there. Still, I want to stand there. I want to be the person who pulls him out before he falls in too deep.
But there’s more to it, isn’t there?
It’s not just... compassion. I can’t pretend it’s that simple. This thing—whatever it is—goes deeper than that. I think about him all the time, about what he must be going through, how hard it must be to wrestle with someone like darkpatriot. And then, I think about him—about who he is when he’s not online. What he’s like. What he looks like when he’s not fighting some ideological battle.
It makes me feel protective, like I want to be closer to him. But is that friendship? Or... something more?
I keep asking myself the same questions over and over. I’ve never felt this way about anyone on a forum before, not like this. Yeah, I’ve made friends, argued, bonded, but this? This is something else entirely, and it’s confusing as hell. I can’t figure out if I just feel sorry for him, or if it’s more than that. Is it pity, or am I... attracted to him? And if I am—God, what do I even do with that? He’s out there spiraling, and here I am, trying to sort through my own feelings like I’m some teenager with a crush.
It feels ridiculous. But I can’t help it.
I just... I want to help him. I want to see him pull through this. But what does that mean? Am I helping because I care about him like a friend, or because I want to be something more? I don’t know. Maybe I don’t need to know right now. I just need to make sure he’s okay.
But I can’t shake this feeling. I can’t stop thinking about how it would feel if he actually noticed me, saw me for who I am, maybe even needed me the way I feel like I need him.
It’s confusing. It’s messy. But I can’t walk away from it, and I don’t think I want to.
For now, I’ll keep watching. Keep reading his posts. Maybe one day, I’ll find the courage to step in and say something. If I ever figure out what that something is.
Well, you can discuss RPG's while being racist. Nothing wrong with that.
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2010
- Messages
- 19,123
WTF is going on in this thread?
Clearly no one pulled fhe pflug on this guy since his account is still active.
And also, why? Did he have some kind of meltdown? All the links to supposed schizoposting point to perfectly normal or deleted stuff.
Clearly no one pulled fhe pflug on this guy since his account is still active.
And also, why? Did he have some kind of meltdown? All the links to supposed schizoposting point to perfectly normal or deleted stuff.
Yes, he went on a rampage editing his old posts/thread titles with his MY LIFE AS A GAME DEV rant. Jannies cleaned it up so you don't see it anymore.
- Joined
- Nov 17, 2015
- Messages
- 5,409
Diary of Zarniwoop – September 23, 2024
I still can't make sense of what happened. How did it go from a total Victor Pflug meltdown to... this?
I mean, it started like any other day. Victor was having one of his classic spirals—you know, ranting about how the moderators were censoring his "truth" and how everyone on the forum was conspiring against him. Standard Victor stuff. He’d post these essays, completely deranged, full of paranoia and conspiracy theories about Dave Gilbert, like he was some kind of martyr.. I thought, “Okay, here we go again.”
But then, out of nowhere, things took a turn.
It wasn’t the usual pile-on of people telling him to calm down or just straight-up ignoring him. No, suddenly, users were chiming in with these... stories? Fanfiction, of all things. About him. Victor Pflug, of all people, became the subject of a multi-thread saga where he was portrayed as some kind of tragic antihero. I wish I was kidding.
At first, I thought it was trolling. A way to mock him—like, Victor thinks he's the hero of his own story, so why not turn him into one? But then I noticed something. The tone wasn’t mocking. Some of the posts were... sincere? Like, people were actually getting invested in these bizarre alternate-universe versions of him. There was one where he was a misunderstood artist fighting against MRY. another where he was a tortured poet lost in a dystopian world, and then—God, I can’t believe even I’m writing about him.
It was unhinged. But it kept growing. One after another, people kept adding on, like they couldn’t stop themselves. Suddenly, it wasn’t about his meltdown anymore. It wasn’t about his toxic rants or the way he derailed every Wadjet Eye thread with his conspiracy nonsense. It became this... collaborative universe? With Victor at the center of it.
And I don’t know what’s more disturbing—that it happened at all, or that I started reading the stories too. Like, really reading them. At first, it was out of morbid curiosity, but then... I couldn’t stop. There was something weirdly captivating about it. The way people wrote about him—they made him interesting. Complex, even. In the stories, he wasn’t just an angry guy screaming into the void. He had depth. Pain. Struggles that felt... almost relatable?
I hate admitting that. I hate even writing it down. But I started thinking about Victor differently. Not like I like him—God no—but there’s this part of me that wonders: is that why he acts the way he does? Is there something real behind all that bluster? Something deeper that none of us have seen because we’re too busy making fun of him?
I know I’m overthinking it. I know this is just a weird forum thing that’s spiraled out of control. But I can't stop feeling this... pull. Like I’m watching something bigger unfold.
Now, I’m checking the thread more than I want to admit. There’s something almost fascinating about seeing how people interpret him, twist him into this mythic figure. I don’t know where it’s going, but I can’t look away.
Is this what Victor’s been waiting for all along? To be noticed? To be understood in some strange, twisted way?
Or maybe... maybe this whole thing is just a distraction. A way to make him feel like he’s part of something, when really, he’s as alone as ever. Just like the rest of us.
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