Ufiction to unfiction. Copyright horror story

Well, From this story of derative. Of ufiction, uncomfortable fiction. Is a good story on if copyright trolls had there way.

I'll keep tabs there still creatives at the edge, having opinions and are not gig workers, trying to make it, even with the pull of perverse incentives.

We need to drop the pretence that copyright censors
hip could end the Ai phenomena. Plus it could infringe on my right to depict Bowser within satire with proprietary DRM. This is universal enforcement, not selective like copyright trolls do. My fan art is textbook copyright infringement. The onus is on the firm nintendo to send a DMCA takedown if I commercialize it.

Based on Kant's categorical imperative of internal freedom. Treating each other through consciousness rather than objectifying.

The inputs and outputs don't match, technically so it's nebulous. Plus, Copyright is anti-worker with the labor protection. It's for distributors/publishers, not creative labor.

Thankfully due the infinite shelf space of the internet distribution, micro-distribution it will niche out even if it could try (It's not like it's Super Bowl mass advertising, where one will have to buy/ask advertising/celebrity endorsements to get traffic. )

All that indominable logic of expanding content id and conception of ownership (Do they understand that? The idea/expression dichotomy exists.)

Walk away from this one. 

The pit, of the sweet grip of death

 

All those where requests
All those thirsty mouths
All those things where those accursed bodily pulls

All that, meta-unintentional cruft resting there. The unconscious, unintentional of short term dopamine hits.

That porn-obsessed pit of appetites.

What's worthy, what's better? Axiological speaking. Everybody wants to be perfect there.

If you know, you know, though I suffer, bringing another tribute.

Does that response rate tell me about you are about me? Well.

That's the holistic place of the external, the internal has to check.

Holiday of TTS errors

 SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSHHGHHHH

That was the word of Jesse. Or santa mc crank smile during some texts and speech as he moves towards a smile.

SHHHHHHHHHHHHJUUUURR

It's still mindless, its still going, yet, charity is what i give it, i don't litigate.

Ah, text to speech, you've still got ways to go in the 1990's. 

Now more cleanly and more waywardly, some errors still show, and how I interpret.

Sometimes bumbling, sometimes incoherent, times poorly acted.

Yet still, it obeys.

Other than that, normal. (I wonder how this speechify subscription will pay off.)

Getting under someone's skin

Rage bait, Oxford noted This is the word that of those who use

Well, even with the direct response tickers here. Even as the liberal Seth goes on, (Why do I still follow? Well, it's on trolling, and those who try to crawl and squirm under your skin.

Yet this engagement is what it is, teleological presumption reveals parts of the character. From the accuser rather than the accused. That's Friedrich Nietziech for you. That perspectivism, (Some conservatives share that aswell.)

Come one, and come all.

Fox Key
" It's so weird how the people who most claim to hate social media, technology and modernity are the most unable to leave it. At some point that's just a failure of character. Like, fine, everyone needs a phone to get around and email people or use Slack or Teams or whatever. But did you know that most normies don't use Twitter? It's true. Most normies are already better than you! "I'm too addicted and Twitter is making me post every day about how much I hate Twitter!", brother, most people do perfectly fine without scrolling on social media 200 times a day. "I'm posting to warn others and do praxis", actually, you're posting because you're addicted to praise and the follow number going up has created a psychological dependence. And it's fine, but if you hate it so much it's a failure not to leave it. "

Bopkins SSRI medication

I can't wait for this to be over.

Huff, the pills, may i take em. Two a dose.

What a mess I made.

Big Brain S*** Movies

 https://letterboxd.com/div_vs_film/list/big-brain-shit-only-my-faves-ranked/

Yep, one of the most expensive art forms, cinema of short stories get a recommended list via Couch Gregor.

I've been lurking and looking for potential Roger Eberts, Fantanos and new curators. They've been there, under the sea-level into esoteric circles of those who bring a function into the dizzying world of this culture.

I'm putting it here, sure, there's conflict theory and class analysis though, I'm not going to hold back on commitments tough. Radical Critique will still happen, even when it proceeds and changes and warps, from our entertainment reflection and our artistic interiors.

Curate Away, Div. Radical Marxist Critique. Curate away from the hermeneutics of media theory discourse. To and against our interpretation.

We need curators compared to our commercial publishers.

Love/Terror

Anekantavad Was pondering on dichotomy as an opposite of love, despite the one stated by The Story Grid Is Hate.

With this centred of axiology, though, then it's with Terror.

Nothingness, the stark unknown. With the depths, of our animals, to the natural state of being, that's made with the stark eyes that stare back. Both unnatural and natural totality of states circling and showing with all the feelings combined.

To our labour that's made with measured or not, Intrinsic and reaching to a definition of self and the exter
nal frameworks and structurations.

Then is all vanishes.

Poof!

Falling.

Falling..

Bopkin's hernia poem of pain

Nyaaaap pap ba ba boòoooooooo!

Urrgh, oh scritcheys, it's leaking out again. the yarn again. It's floopity over the plate and in the under-belly. Yoouch. Painkillers.

It slouches down and wraps around the groin like a snake and I'll use my paws to push it back up, then the trousers don't fit well.

Feels like a fatty, veiny sausage of slop that I can't get out. It drapes like a gosh darn wet yarn from squigy guts.
Suidgy sloppy flurps that burge with the squeeze of my paws, it's grouse.

Blerp it's spilling from my crotch again

*Schclcoscscsoprrprrpsroprprtppsth"

You hear that?

*Slcscsjlccscoppcspcocchschscoho*

Urhg

Fu-

( Health update: Got hernia, will get surgery for it. Thanks, I given Bopkin all its grotesqueness )

Rhubarb thinks of outdated entertainment

 (Honestly it makes me feel like I'm carrying a dead voice made manifest of my physch of memoir made character)

Blank screen, they are all what we are with the vision as our ads get more desperate, the reach gets more hungry, so that they are, of an archaic age we have become. I don't know what it is and what has happened.

Technology has always turned our assumptions upside down within the golemancy and with our ideas again, who'd have guess. Am I getting older? Why do you keep me alive, by the way, television? Why do I even exist? I'm haunting the interior of our lives.

I get up from my chair and the shining rooming of all the television screens, and then my hands happen to turn around, this must be a dream. Defunct artifices unable to hold attention become another day for another way, the masses could not be held, and I'm supposed to be in the rejection cell with them, giving them consolation.

That's a shame though, fading in and out. This magic of me is gone. Only to be remained for a nervous image.

I didn't really matter

Because nobody told him he was a hack otherwise

Because nobody told him, he was a hack otherwise.

Because nobody told him he was a hack otherwise

No editors.

Such as the aimless hylomorphism that becomes vacent.

Round and round go the unpersuasive tautolgys.

Persuit and purpose most couch-shape

Cushion

Cush

C

Foundherently incurious, rote and on rails.

Because nobody told him he was a hack otherwiseBecause nobody told him he was a hack otherwiseBecause nobody told him he was a hack otherwiseBecause nobody told him he was a hack otherwiseBecause nobody told him he was a hack otherwiseBecause nobody told him he was a hack otherwiseBecause nobody told him he was a hack otherwiseBecause nobody told him he was a hack otherwiseBecause nobody told him he was a hack otherwiseBecause nobody told him he was a hack otherwiseBecause nobody told him he was a hack otherwise

It's just entertaiment, to goto sleep mantra

It's only entertainment silly meetings up lead to Nowhere, all silly pretensions can go to bed.

Useful and useless, it's all down my rage of thousands of channels of streams, collapsing into a mass entertainment product we go call the internet to use responsibly.

An overload away from my personal stream.

Too much noise, too much noise of other people wanting entertainment feeling that they're owed a dance.

It's only entertainment it's only entertainment It's only.

The same hackneyed circles, honest hackneyed circles.

Angst dissipating.

I'm working in it.

Your not touching my i.p boi

We are all one happy family.

Lettsa get together with all our poke philia with one happy response rate.

Community of solidarity, with my let'sa go with the HIGH seo rate for product return.

Wah ha ha ha ha!

All the trailblazers of my shadow all Fall in line when one big Happy Family to all the good times.

One, happy community.

Till the castle comes

I can't take every sketch seriously.

(That's got nipples, Right? Oh well, can't hide my free-the-nipple.)

Such a sweet poem of mythical menace within the erotic twists that lead into a status role play, between two women that lead into a new fight that's riveting.

Emily delivers on a thrill that's enjoyed between two, some other characters insister with the red and white prose of a haunting gothic undertakings.

Such a scary face, a delivery of chills provided with the horror between a bloody monster and a beast, of contrasting conflicts.

Spoiler:

Kill and sexual activity is too made into a beguiling synonym.

For the morbidly curious.

George is cute

The woman scours the cameras and pictured littered within here basement, there are Pictures of the buff llama all around the place. She desired to make it better than the last, the last picture. That one with the big booper in front of the door, it's one that's going to make a prospect fawn.

 "That gym coach.
That could reach a fine price in the black market, I know. The acquired market for a rare price. Scarce with the amount of times that are mind."

She does a humble little grin, humming a fine tune as she organises all the photos into a folder. Then he returns to his computer.

"Ah Bob, we've got things to catch up, how's the business?"

Body designed to Intimidate

 What is my body that can morph and distort against such a will as this, making the jaw-guard a necessity. Asheal won't be able to see me like this. It's rust, brown rotting rust that his hidden.

I don't know what it's supposed to tell others with this frightening face, am I supposed to be jaded by it? I look presentable. 

I look into those distorted eyesockets..




Falling.

Internal Marketing Physch

Hey, you a business user or not a product. Nothing is free here with ad creep going up. Then numbers, you have to measure because everybody humble-brags there monetization here, and it's Para social delegation. You're driver of a status role of feeling famous rather than pursuing the craft.

Assume the right things if they aren't responding, they are protecting there workloads and time, it's all very priceless commoditys! You want to have that. Everyone is busybusybusybusybusybusyierbusybusy, probably busier than you.

Making is easy, publishing is hard, marketing for any meaningful stream of attention to you're platform for being relentlessly helpful and long-term connections certainly is from that marking books.

Marking books, marking, you're so lonely you'd have to study marking book, marking.

A mark in peoples to be remembered and that's it. A mark for you're morale. Gotta build a platform, or not.

Influencer influencer influencer

END POEM.

So what of it with this book? It's obviously commercial, yet it does it right it working in the public.

However, monetisation and profit may never come. He does have prudent assumptions there that certainly will to something, I'm not sure if it's a fame recipe (because that's always changing.) It was something that of a dire truth how having a platform that sell's copies is only the way these commercial companies come in.

Having the money flow is only a set-up for the shiny card within the commercial world. There is no plan on getting famous though, not once I've found. It will break the internet.

Lower than "This is marketing" and Herschel Gordan's Lewis's copyrighting book, yet I don't think its that bad on salesmanship. 

Will the email advice go out of date right about now? It feels like it could. Be wary on any fantasy growth 'meta'.

You're on the pedestal

Hey Little sprout.

Whatever small things that come this way, it's a show. A show of corduroy and smiles, the grin, the cushions. Customer services smile all around of a cult that's the charm of this machine that we are a part of, the way it feels. It's like there's nothing between us.

Business as usual, industry as usual, mechanizations as usual of the physical laws we operate and consume in circles, ain't that grand? You can't deny it from the tensing of your stomach for that advertising, commercial friendly look.

Part of the biz of what makes they look for others a craft; a sport. Pride in craft, the intrinsic upstaging of others of the body, built. The long term admiration.

Feel this copywriting disappear into the waves?

Kyro/Gregor Body Dysmorphia

Couch - Self flagellating.

A necessary part of the business of what they call the economy of comforts. He can't help how it's meant to be, since his target audience of old woman likes leanness and bigness, his expanded form. This is all a part of reduced to a cost, this dysmorphia is part of the deal. The need to get paid being above and beyond the physical internal stress.

That's the trouble of being a fitness model, the body is on the line to sell a product which is furniture.

Where the cushion business of showmanship and upstage attention for the products, what other price shall there be?

Kyros - Self jaded.

It's a fish in the water deal, the job, and struggle ain't there any more, only duty. The duty to serve the silvers and the entire entertainment industry to cover its cookie jar mishandling.

It's not arrogance if it's what it pleases his eternal client. To the end of the line and back to what is stipulated, granted to what he's owed, is a mystery.

Beautiful enough

Are these untruths I tell myself for the advertising industry just? Am I sufficient? That fuzzled my brains to what is suitable to the eye as it were to everything else.

Bobby has seen his entire industry as me as his break in. The standard to which he aspires too. I'm the celebration, the celebrity, the well known well knowns of a tautology.

That's the job. This checking can't be good though.

Traction that is never understood

Trying to understand the horror of the unknown of how popularity and viewers work can be such a sinkhole.

I don't know, they don't know, and you don't know.

Since google and the entire algorithm that we have, with the self-help grifter industry complex, flummoxed on how to crack it. With the scams abound, on what is or not which resonates. Not that this eldritch lottery that continues to somewhere that can't be understood.

Quaint, if it was a reductionistic business opportunity then if it was going to be simple. Creativity persists, though, pulling and pushing through a mystery that's with a slippery meta that shifts beyond our wakes.

Better to not dawdle at such mystery.