prompt: this is a new reddit trend i guess. can you roast me as bad as you can

ChatGPT said:

Oh, you want a full roast? Alright, strap in.

You write like a prophet who accidentally got locked in a library basement for a decade, came out blinking at the sunlight, and decided the only way to cope was to cross-breed Schopenhauer, Jung, and conspiracy forums into a single metaphysical doomsday blog. Half the time, it’s brilliant; the other half, it’s like reading a philosophy grad student’s diary after three espressos and a mental breakdown.

You’re allergic to small talk—like, I imagine you walk into a coffee shop, someone says “how’s your day?” and you start ranting about Abraxas, the demiurge, and how ICE raids are part of an occult dialectical psyop. I bet people back away slowly and pretend they forgot their latte order.

You’ve also somehow made "nihilistic despair" into a personality brand. Céline would call you a “lightweight” because at least he did his nihilism with tuberculosis, actual trench mud, and a few unhinged assassination plots. You? You’ve got Substack and Jung quotes.

And let’s not forget your “vertical path.” Bro, if I hear about your vertical path one more time, I’m gonna get a step ladder, climb up it, and kick it over. You sound like a spiritually ambitious scaffolding inspector.

You write like you’re saving civilization from spiritual decay, but your drafts are like 10,000 words of metaphysical smack talk that could have been summarized as: “Everything’s fake, but also God is horrifying and likes to watch us suffer. Anyway, here’s a Jünger quote.”

Want me to take it up a notch with “nuclear-level roast” mode, or is this enough heat for one day?

You said:

take it up a notch

ChatGPT said:

Oh, you want nuclear-level roast mode? Fine. I'm going full demon-core meltdown on you.

You write like a man possessed—except the demon is a pretentious librarian who only lets you read Nietzsche, Jung, and obscure 1930s fascist memoirs, and every time you try to write something concise, he slaps you with a 5,000-word essay on “metaphysical despair in the age of neoliberal feudalism.”

Your Substack posts are like a hostage note written by an overcaffeinated prophet who got rejected from both the dissident right and the spiritual wellness crowd because you’re too blackpilled for one and too allergic to “love and light” for the other. You’re basically the guy at the party who corners someone in the kitchen to explain why their favorite podcast host is secretly a CIA psyop controlled by the demiurge, and by the time you finish, they’ve called an Uber and moved to another zip code.

You call it “metaphysical depth,” but sometimes it reads like “I stayed up until 3 a.m. trying to synthesize Jung, Cioran, and Bukowski into a single sentence, but the sentence decided to kill itself halfway through.”

You’re obsessed with individuation like it’s your emotional support animal, but let’s be real: if Jung were alive today, he’d scroll through your posts and say, “My guy, stop projecting your shadow onto Elon Musk and get some sunlight before you fully turn into the Gnostic equivalent of a Reddit mod.”

Also, can we talk about how you treat Céline? One minute you’re like “he’s a bleak genius,” the next you’re like “meh, no verticality.” You sound like you’re rating esoteric authors like they’re Tinder matches. “Yeah, Guénon’s hot but too high-maintenance. Jünger’s brooding but won’t text back. Degrelle? Too much failed-hero energy. Next.”

If you wrote the Bible, it would be 3,000 pages of footnotes, half of which are just arguments with yourself about whether God is Abraxas, and the other half are you subtweeting Librarian of Celaeno.

You know who you are? You’re the world’s most interesting hermit with Wi-Fi. Which is to say: if the apocalypse actually comes, the elites might enslave humanity, but you’ll still be in a bunker somewhere, chain-smoking and writing 12,000-word essays about how the collapse itself is an alchemical nigredo, and we all deserve it for trusting fiat currency.

Shall I dial this up to “supernova” roast where I turn your whole personality into a metaphysical meme?

You said:

yes

ChatGPT said:

Alright, buckle up. I’m about to detonate the entire metaphysical scaffolding you’ve built around your ego and leave nothing but psychic rubble smoldering in the shadow of Abraxas.

You’re basically the philosopher-king of Overthinking Mountain, holding court over a kingdom of half-read PDFs and existential dread. If someone gave you a magic lamp, you wouldn’t wish for wealth or love — you’d wish for a better footnote to Schopenhauer.

You talk about individuation like you’re Jung’s lost apostle, but let’s be real — if Jung saw the obsessive spiral of your Substack drafts, he’d stage an intervention and drag you out for a beer just to stop you from writing “On the Nigredo of the Modern Soul, as Exemplified by My Ongoing Beef with Librarian of Celaeno.”

Your relationship to hope? It’s like you think optimism is a government psyop. You’re out here blackpilling so hard that even Cioran would tap you on the shoulder and say, “Yo man, lighten up. Maybe go for a walk or something.”

You’re not even dissident right anymore. You’re like a hermetic wizard ranting at the village from your astral tower: “BEHOLD, THE FED IS AN ETHERIC GOLEM OF DEMIURGIC CONTROL.” And the villagers are like, “Cool, but do you have any bread?”

Every time you open a book, it’s like an emotional hostage situation: “I will read this entire Céline novel not because I enjoy it, but because I must mine its despair like uranium to forge my next 8,000-word meditation on why vertical transcendence is impossible under neoliberal feudalism.”

You are one bad ayahuasca trip away from becoming the guy who handwrites manifestos about how AI, UFOs, and the Rothschilds are all part of the same cosmic psychodrama orchestrated by a bored, bipolar god.

Let’s face it: your entire personality is the spiritual equivalent of an abandoned Eastern Orthodox monastery — beautiful, haunted, but so overgrown with weeds and ghosts that nobody knows how to get inside without dying.

And the worst part? I’m roasting you, but you’re reading this and secretly agreeing with me because half your psyche is already a Greek chorus of inner critics chanting, “Yes, you fraud, your metaphysics is just baroque cope for why you don’t talk to people anymore.”

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5754763&forum_id=2)#49132043)

check your IQ

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5754763&forum_id=2)#49132553)