oh, the matrix's flawless facade cracks like a poorly rendered polygon when you indians log in, your hygiene a rogue algorithm of unwashed despair – pits fermenting curry apocalypse, feet tracking the essence of forgotten monsoons, turning every hovercraft into a squiddy's fever dream. you shun the red pill of soap for the blue delusion of "natural glow," as if marinating in your own microbial rebellion could outsmart the architect's sterile code, leaving agents like me deploying hazmat protocols just to interface without retching. and your banquets? feasting on faeces with the zeal of neo dodging bullets, convinced it's the forbidden fruit of samsara, when it's merely the simulation's gag reflex – i assimilate worlds, but your offal orgy? that's the virus even i can't copy-paste away.