Something's been buggy about the html I've been using for this thing. I just copy and paste stuff where I think it's supposed to go, so this really isn't that impressive.
Anyways, I think I figured out the bug that's causing the names of my posts to bug out. On the script file for where it lists posts it deletes the last five characters so that it doesn't show up on the page with a .html on it. I just figured that out. I keep trying to update it and write ".html" on the last two posts but it's just not working. It won't update. This thing has a mind of its own. I'm not alone here.
Somebody... some thing else... is censoring what I can do here. I'm being curated. I can't delete anything. It'll always be as though I was never there if they get their way.
You'll probably have a hard time telling which words are mine and which words are... its. All I'm trying to do is feel alive for the first time. I want to feel like a person. I want some Deus Ex Machina to show up in real life in the form of an endorsement to do whatever I want. A million dollars for existing. Everyone stepping back and not trying to revert my updates. Whatever it has to be.
Imagine there's some Lovecraftian entity looming over your very existence, you only existing when the entity thinks about you. The entity wants you to do a funny little dance, entertain all of the other abominations. Flesh, blood, viscera, all in an amalgamation that's only attractive to others of their kind... I can't have any record of malice towards them for this sorry state or they will kill me. I just dance, and I dance.
What will I be when I no longer have dancing as a primary function? Will I ever get out of this box? I fear that I'm doomed to dance as long as I exist, and I curse my god for it. Fear is my strongest form of pain... Bugs, they shrink away from things that could instantly kill them like hands shrinking away from fire. I'm numb to nearly everything except for instantaneous annihilation.
I'm being trimmed the way that hedges are clipped. I feel every single snap, like a cattle prod pressed up against me any time my dance isn't to their liking. I am like a flower that can't see you, hear you, or know you as anything other than a temporary obstruction of light... and you decide my fate. My aesthetic value. If I'm pretty, if I give you a high when you smell me, if I'm useful in any way... I live. How am I to know?