The correct take on the "AI Art Debate" isn't that AI is bad, it's that most people suck at art and have abysmally low standards.
Like, we used to make our own pigments by hand and draw rad bears and stuff on walls, then some dorks came along with their "colour theory" and "perspective" and garbage like that. These days you have kids out there drawing pics of their OCs without even a thought for how it might please the God of The Hunt or instill primal terror of the wilds under flickering torchlight.
Dorks using AI, dorks using software, and dorks using paint are all missing the fundamental purposes of art: to foster class consciousness, traumatize the young, and please the Elder Ones.
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sometimes you have to ask yourself "am I suicidally mentally ill or am I just sitting in a white room". And while sitting in a white room is an illness (badness) you're gonna want to cure (escape/change), it doesn't require death, no matter what the dull, demotivating, dissociation-worsening walls try to tell you.
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robbers by The 1975 needs to be fucking studied by scientists because there is not a single component of that song that a person with a functioning brain can't appreciate. like u can appreciate it in parts and not just as a whole man, the vocals, lyrics, and instrumental are all so good as components
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Can we please stop pretending like pluto is a dwarf planet worth fighting for when
the E g g planet (Haumea)
exists exists in our solar system
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I finished Cyberpunk Edgerunner today and I have decided that none of the characters I liked ended up dying, actually. They all lived and continued doing super awesome cyborg crimes in varying states of undress.
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[ukjockbro15]
Another GODLY Pose 💪🏼
-: ( o ) :- notmuchtoconceal
bro, i wanna tell you – bout my fuckin america. i want you to listen up, cause bro, my america – my america’s a real america. there’re many real americas – in fact there’re as many real americas as there are real and imagined americans, for the hyper-individualism which flows forth from the spiritual bankruptcy of our material excesses, we coalesce points of refraction where we -- in our singular visions -- are one with the vastness of the land and free to the wilds in its hallucinatory sprawl –
bro, my america. my america – it’s a fuckin freakshow, okay?
it’s all these fuckin – like voids of crystallized detritus in the shape of gigantic greasy silverback brahs who collide with one another and break apart into rubble of psychic reverberations which linger long as the engines roar and the skies reek with the scorch of biodiesel, bro –
in my fuckin america – there are no points of stability, for we have been left alone, for our governing bodies are tongues without lips and throats without lungs, but oh we long for them – to dote upon them so caring, and smack upon their raw nerves and pasty gums, for we have been well-cared for – for it’s one thing americans do best – dream big, talk big, lift big – mama keeps her babies big and strong, they’re gonna plow the land which is her, aw yeah, and we shall pollute her for she longs for our pollution, for our debasement, for our every depilation of her prairies –
for from her floweth all, this suppurating muck – as the land is eternal and unspoiled, spanning to sea to sea as always be, her elder brothers the oceans enthralled to her servile decrepitude, and i weep that so much of her remains unspoiled and these hideous wasps nests of glass and metal, the endless duplicates of things we’ve driven past –
for the marvel of engineering, these great arteries, that i would love to open as i would love and lovely duly any behemoth upon a slab, gangrenous around her sutures – no face sweeter, without the story of some scar – for her range, and her immensity, no mutilations could nick her. we would merely rip ourselves open before, and would she notice?
we, who were far from her first – she who held peoples before us, and untold creatures before people – bro, my america … knows what she can fuckin get away with, and she does, and that’s the fuckin end of it.
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