The berry pink spamThe 4 separate threads for 1 picture spamThe christcuck zog-golem threads spamYosho thread spamMisc necrobumped thread spam
the entire board now is just spam or complaining about spam
thread hidden
same lolYour fortune: ｷﾀ━━━━━━(ﾟ∀ﾟ)━━━━━━ !!!!
gonna reply to myself here in one month
>>13074948this is [s4s]Your fortune: Average Luck
omg that kitten is so me jej
>>13074948yosho is on the same comedic level as a tobusucus minecraft video from 2012
>>13075010*Starts sneering and laughing (snuraffing) at the mere visual percept of string fragment 'tobusucus'*
>>13075012nugget in a biscuit
>>13074948hmmm
A heavy black volume, amateurishly bound, with no name or title on the cover. The print also looked slightly irregular. The pages were worn at the edges, and fell apart easily, as though the book had passed through many hands. The inscription on the title page ran:THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF OLIGARCHICAL COLLECTIVISM by EMMANUEL GOLDSTEIN[Winston began reading.]Chapter 1.IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH.Throughout recorded time, and probably since the end of the Neolithic Age, there have been three kinds of people in the world, the High, the Middle, and the Low. They have been subdivided in many ways, they have borne countless different names, and their relative numbers, as well as their attitude toward one another, have varied from age to age; but the essential structure of society has never altered. Even after enormous upheavals and seemingly irrevocable changes, the same pattern has always reasserted itself, just as a gyroscope will always return to equilibrium, however far it is pushed one way or the other.The aims of these three groups are entirely irreconcilable....Winston stopped reading, chiefly in order to appreciate the fact that he was reading, in comfort and safety. He was alone: no telescreen, no ear at the keyhole, no nervous impulse to glance over his shoulder or cover the page with his hand. The sweet summer air played against his cheek. From somewhere far away there floated the faint shouts of children; in the room itself there was no sound except the insect voice of the clock. He settled deeper into the armchair and put his feet up on the fender. It was bliss, it was eternity. Suddenly, as one sometimes does with a book of which one knows that one will ultimately read and reread every word, he opened it at a different place and found himself at the third chapter. He went on reading:Chapter 3.WAR IS PEACE.Your fortune: Better not tell you now
The frightening thing, he reflected for the ten thousandth time as he forced his shoulders painfully backward (with hands on hips, they were gyrating their bodies from the waist, an exercise that was supposed to be good for the back muscles}the frightening thing was that it might all be true. If the Party could thrust its hand into the past and say of this or that event, it never happened-that, surely, was more terrifying than mere torture and death.The Party said that Oceania had never been in alliance with Eurasia. He, Winston Smith, knew that Oceania had been in alliance with Eurasia as short a time as four years ago. But where did that knowledge exist? Only in his own consciousness, which in any case must soon be annihilated. And if all others accepted the lie which the Party imposed-if all records told the same tale-then the lie passed into history and became truth. "Who controls the past,"' ran the Party slogan, "controls the future: who controls the present controls the past." And yet the past, though of its nature alterable, never had been altered. Whatever was true now was true from everlasting to everlasting. It was quite simple. All that was needed was an unending series of victories over your own memory. "Reality control," they called it; in Newspeak, "doublethink."Your fortune: Average Luck
Winston hardly knew Tillotson, and had no idea what work he was employed on. People in the Records Department did not readily talk about their jobs. In the long, windowless hall, with its double row of cubicles and its endless rustle of papers and hum of voices murmuring into speakwrites, there were quite a dozen people whom Winston did not even know by name, though he daily saw them hurrying to and fro in the corridors or gesticulating in the Two Minutes Hate. He knew that in the cubicle next to him the little woman with sandy hair toiled day in, day out, simply at tracking down and deleting from the press the names of people who had been vaporized and were therefore considered never to have existed.Your fortune: ｷﾀ━━━━━━(ﾟ∀ﾟ)━━━━━━ !!!!
>>13074948
>>13074948Hiding threads is the most reddit thing there is. If you're such an oversensitive baby who can't just ignore threads, you don't belong here.
Nobody cares, Josh.Your fortune: Better not tell you now
