>"The story follows a protagonist (often referred to as /1404er/) who is consumed by a nihilistic, 4chan-like, or eight chan-like website. It dives deep into his disconnected, porn-addicted, and emotionally vacant life, including his disturbing, often graphic, online interactions and real-life isolation."?
>>25056185Is this written for tiktokkers and redditors too scared to come here?
>>25056185Last year, when the site was hacked, I thought about writing my experiences as an ebin 4chan anon and narrating the events that took place through the years, but I always thought it would be too kitsch.
>>25056210Already been done with My First Book, Femoid, and, like, all the other novels from users here.
>>25056185A friend loaned me this and recommended I read it. He's also spent a lot of time on 4chan (and /lit/), so I've been meaning to get through it and post about it here.>>25056360Amygdalatropolis came out in 2017, well before either of the novels you mentioned. Femoid also never fully released unless you count the author finally half-secretly giving away the PDF after his former editor/publisher threw a fit. Anyway, the Sluts came out in 2004 and is probably the most timeless of any of these.
>>25056185That type of edgecore, romanticised contemporary; the rejection of the "rebel-sell" antihero, postwar westerner nostalgia. That rejection is sentimental or worse in what it does not say. Like a documentary on Hegel that doesn't ask him about his sex life, his love, or the silence of that which we know infects those passages. There is sentimentalism and stupid yuppie fun, glib remarks at a good party, a moment in the authors life when a potential partner's desire made them recognize they'd made it, they'd coopted and satisfied the end of another and in so doing made themselves submit. Their higher semblance abstracted, these desires passed beyond each other and to them in their spectacularly glib mouthing off at what? You care enough that religion be explicit but made no sign on entering the silence, and yet underneath was His sanatorium. The feeling was not glib mouthing off! Upheld beyond the song of words an angels voice the harmony, the neoplatonic revelation of the one, humming from the potential partner to you, now smashed, high, bored again, willing nothing, astranged from the luke baby's bath water of the reception. And life goes on for others with no record at all of trite horrors in aging. Never again will life press another's desire on you in need of your submission while you live simply kindly content and yet barbarous and empty when art flows through you as craft labour pay and speak.
