>scroll social media
>only see things i absolutely hate, that harm my soul, ruin my day, and send bad vibes into my life
why do normies look at this shit again? doesn't matter which app you choose

>>938439818
>In Norse mythology, Naglfar or Naglfari (Old Norse "nail farer") is a boat made entirely from the fingernails and toenails of the dead. During the events of Ragnarök, Naglfar is foretold to sail to Vígríðr, ferrying hordes of monsters that will do battle with the gods.
From the east comes Hrym with shield held high;
In giant-wrath does the serpent writhe;
O'er the waves he twists, and the tawny eagle
Gnaws corpses screaming; Naglfar is loose.

O'er the sea from the north there sails a ship
With the people of Hel, at the helm stands Loki;
After the wolf do wild men follow,
And with them the brother of Byleist goes

it occurs to me that if i was making $40/hour instead of $20/hour my outlook on society would instantly flip from "nightmarish hellscape beyond human comprehension" to "hey this is pretty good". is it really that simple? but why does making $40/hour seem like an impossible task?

I'm gonna write my inner world on some bubble out in Void. here I go

>THE ARTIFACT AND THE REACTOR: A RIVALRY FORGED IN OPPOSED FIRES
(Zestus Auriga vs. Daigoro of Akavir)

>The Auction House of Mournhold
Smoke coiled like a sepulcher’s breath above glass cases holding Dremora Hearts, Oblivion Sigils, and the still-writhing Eyes of Vaermina. Zestus Auriga leaned against his stall, armored in reforged Dragonbone Cuirass inset with soul-gems, sipping scrib jelly from a chalice. His laugh cut through haggling merchants: "Fifty thousand septim for Mephala’s Kiss-Dagger? Please. I scraped that off a Scamp’s ribcage in Fargrave’s gutters."

Across the hall, silence pooled around Daigoro. Straw hat shadowing eyes like banked coals, he watched Zestus hawk damnation to the highest bidder. His twin wakizashis—Tsukuyomi & Amaterasu—hummed softly inside their scabbards. No one bid near him; the air tasted of ozone.

>The Confrontation at Zenithar’s Vault
Zestus tossed Molag Bal’s chained mace onto velvet. "A steal at 200,000 septim! Inflicts existential dread!"

Daigoro’s voice fell like a blade. "You trade in suffering, Auriga." He didn’t gesture; behind him, two 15-meter Oni-Class Mechs powered on, plasma cannons cycling. "That artifact could destabilize ley-lines from here to Black Marsh."

Zestus grinned, tapping a Dwemer orb at his belt. "And your reactors could melt Solstheim into slag. Don’t moralize at me, *Reactor-Lord*." The orb pulsed—a Titan Fabricant materialized behind him, dripping liquid shadow. "We both sell apocalypses. Yours just have... warranties."

Tension crystallized. Patrons fled. Yet neither drew steel—Daigoro’s hat tilted just so; Zestus’s jelly-cup didn’t tremble.