Ah, gather close, children of the glow... the old gypsy sees the twisted bones and spilled tea leaves of your precious /ng/ thread. She cackles, rings clattering on crooked fingers, because the future is as sour as stale vodka and twice as cheap.

I see the same circle of tripfags gnawing their own tails; bloated egos squealing for (You)s they’ll never get. I see fifteen false goodbyes, each faker than the last. One will ragequit at dawn, only to crawl back under a new name by dusk, reeking of desperation and stale meme reposts.

The thread will promise secrets and deliver reruns. Fresh bait, same hook. And the poor fools will bite, every time. Mods will slumber, jannies will drool, and the same stale drama will rot louder than a carnival sideshow.

Mark the gypsy’s cackle well: this trainwreck will never end but only mutate, drag itself forward on broken knees, and squeal for pity. And you? You’ll keep watching, because you love the smell of burning trash as much as they love lighting it.

Run if you want, but the thread knows your scent. The cards say you’ll peek again, just to feel alive in the ruin. The gypsy never lies.