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TESLA SPRING UPDATE IS IN FULL BLOOM—AND IT’S PACKED WITH POWER Fresh features just dropped, making your Tesla smarter, smoother, and cooler than ever: •⁠ ⁠Adaptive Headlights: Smarter high beams = happier night driving. •⁠ ⁠Blind Spot Cam (S/X): Now on the driver display—no more guesswork. •⁠ ⁠Dashcam Boost...

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Mario Nawfal

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1,662,348 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr •via X (Twitter)

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Free NVIDIA GPU with 16 GB VRAM GPU for Running Local LLMs! If you want to master local LLMs but you're waiting until you can afford a $1,500 GPU, you're honestly not going to make it. The open source AI ecosystem is moving way too fast for you to wait on your budget to catch up. Especially when you can build a bleeding edge inference engine from scratch right now, completely for free. You don't need a heavy local rig to start. Google is literally letting you use an enterprise grade NVIDIA Tesla T4 GPU for $0/hour. At standard cloud computing rates (~$0.20/hr), Google Colab’s 4 hour daily free tier hands you roughly $24 worth of data center tier GPU compute every single month. And most people just waste it. Let’s talk about the hardware you get access to for free. The NVIDIA Tesla T4 is an absolute workhorse: - Architecture: NVIDIA Turing (TU104) - VRAM: 16GB GDDR6 (320 GB/s bandwidth) - Compute: 320 Tensor Cores | 2560 CUDA Cores - Performance: 130 TOPS INT8 | 8.1 TFLOPS FP32 - Power: Sipping energy at a max 70W TDP This is the exact same hardware I used to run DeepMind's Gemma 4 26B A4B QAT MoE at a 250,000 context window without a single Out Of Memory (OOM) crash. If you have a web browser and 10 minutes, you have everything you need. I’ve put together a fully documented, cell by cell Google Colab notebook that teaches you exactly how to do this. Here is what the notebook actually teaches you: - How to provision an Ubuntu Linux environment with CUDA 13.0 and verify your driver stack. - How to pull the source code and compile the latest llama.cpp C++ binaries from scratch, specifically optimizing the build for your exact GPU using the -DCMAKE_CUDA_ARCHITECTURES=native flag. - How to directly download quantized local LLMs (GGUF format) straight from HuggingFace using the CLI. - How to manage 16GB VRAM limits, offload neural network layers to the GPU, and push massive context windows. Compile raw llama.cpp, ollama run a model, or spin up the LM Studio CLI. Pick whatever stack you are comfortable with. just start building. No hardware. No credit card. No excuses. Bookmark this post right now so you don't lose the tutorial. Even if you don't have time to run it today, you are going to want this workflow in your engineering toolkit. The link to the free Colab Notebook is in the comments below. Lemme know if you need more tutorials like this.
0:11

Free NVIDIA GPU with 16 GB VRAM GPU for Running Local LLMs! If you want to master local LLMs but you're waiting until you can afford a $1,500 GPU, you're honestly not going to make it. The open source AI ecosystem is moving way too fast for you to wait on your budget to catch up. Especially when you can build a bleeding edge inference engine from scratch right now, completely for free. You don't need a heavy local rig to start. Google is literally letting you use an enterprise grade NVIDIA Tesla T4 GPU for $0/hour. At standard cloud computing rates (~$0.20/hr), Google Colab’s 4 hour daily free tier hands you roughly $24 worth of data center tier GPU compute every single month. And most people just waste it. Let’s talk about the hardware you get access to for free. The NVIDIA Tesla T4 is an absolute workhorse: - Architecture: NVIDIA Turing (TU104) - VRAM: 16GB GDDR6 (320 GB/s bandwidth) - Compute: 320 Tensor Cores | 2560 CUDA Cores - Performance: 130 TOPS INT8 | 8.1 TFLOPS FP32 - Power: Sipping energy at a max 70W TDP This is the exact same hardware I used to run DeepMind's Gemma 4 26B A4B QAT MoE at a 250,000 context window without a single Out Of Memory (OOM) crash. If you have a web browser and 10 minutes, you have everything you need. I’ve put together a fully documented, cell by cell Google Colab notebook that teaches you exactly how to do this. Here is what the notebook actually teaches you: - How to provision an Ubuntu Linux environment with CUDA 13.0 and verify your driver stack. - How to pull the source code and compile the latest llama.cpp C++ binaries from scratch, specifically optimizing the build for your exact GPU using the -DCMAKE_CUDA_ARCHITECTURES=native flag. - How to directly download quantized local LLMs (GGUF format) straight from HuggingFace using the CLI. - How to manage 16GB VRAM limits, offload neural network layers to the GPU, and push massive context windows. Compile raw llama.cpp, ollama run a model, or spin up the LM Studio CLI. Pick whatever stack you are comfortable with. just start building. No hardware. No credit card. No excuses. Bookmark this post right now so you don't lose the tutorial. Even if you don't have time to run it today, you are going to want this workflow in your engineering toolkit. The link to the free Colab Notebook is in the comments below. Lemme know if you need more tutorials like this.

Alok

178,744 Aufrufe • vor 1 Monat

Today, I took the new Lucid Gravity SUV out for a quick drive. Here are my initial thoughts of the car and the drive: Materials & Seats: I have to say, this is a nice vehicle. The interior feels very premium, and the materials feel expensive. The perforated vegan leather seats are plush, provide good support, and hug you nicely. I sat in two Gravitys, one specced with the $4,200 Tahoe Brown vegan leather seats (really liked that color) and one with the all-black interior. The massaging seats are also surprisingly useful. Unlike the gimmicky ones in many cars, these actually feel great and not like a tiny mouse poking your back. I’d use them regularly if I owned one. The powered second-row seats are roomy and comfortable, with plenty of space for legs and feet. One small gripe I have: the grab handles on the interior feel like very cheap, hollow plastic. Design: The Gravity leans more toward minivan styling than SUV, but I actually think it works. Lucid managed to fit a whopping 120 cubic feet of cargo capacity into this thing. For context, that’s about 24% more than the Tesla Model X (91.6 cu ft), even though the Gravity is an inch shorter. It’s also just 10% less than the Cadillac Escalade IQ EV (131 cu ft), despite the Escalade being more than two feet longer. The 6K OLED panoramic display looks great, but the software felt a little laggy at times and is tough to see in direct sunlight. The steering wheel button design isn’t my favorite, but I do like the flat-top, flat-bottom design, Reminds me of Cybertruck’s wheel. Cargo loading is very convenient. With the air suspension lowered, the rear load floor is super low, making it easy to get things in and out. The trunk opening, though, is oddly shaped. I found the hatch uncomfortably close to my head, but raising the air suspension helps a little. Taller folks may still run into that issue. Showroom Employees: I met three Lucid employees at the showroom, one of whom had worked at Tesla for 10 years. All of them were very nice and knowledgeable. Sound System: It’s VERY good—great bass response, not muddy. It has Dolby Atmos, and it rocks. The Cybertruck still has the best factory sound system I’ve ever heard, but the Gravity’s is still great. ADAS: Unfortunately, I didn’t have much time to try it out, so I can’t give an opinion. But the 360-degree camera view is nice. It makes parking much easier and has a curb-rash alert so you don’t scrape your expensive wheels. Test Drive: The Gravity I drove, including options, was priced at $115,000. The ride felt firmer than I expected, even in the softest air suspension setting, but it was still comfortable. The sportier modes were fun and deliver that classic, quick-acceleration EV experience. The steering feel struck a good balance—sporty, but not tiring for everyday use. Visibility is good, and the glass windshield that extends past your head is cool (though I still think the Model X windshield is more immersive). Charging: The Gravity has native NACS and can charge at speeds up to 220 kW at Tesla Superchargers. In general, the vehicle is capable of up to 400 kW charging speeds. Final Thoughts: As Tesla fans, we can sometimes be tough on non-Tesla EVs, but I think the Gravity SUV is evidence that Tesla’s mission is working: accelerating the advent of sustainable energy. Tesla’s mission and past work helped pave the way for a vehicle like the Lucid Gravity to exist and come to market. While Lucid’s path to profitability is still in question, and while the Gravity is expensive (for now), even from my short time with it, this feels like Lucid’s first truly great product. Only the $94,900 Grand Touring trim is available right now, but the company says the less expensive Touring trim will come out late this year for $79,900. We shall see. More photos and videos of mine in the thread below:
0:18

Today, I took the new Lucid Gravity SUV out for a quick drive. Here are my initial thoughts of the car and the drive: Materials & Seats: I have to say, this is a nice vehicle. The interior feels very premium, and the materials feel expensive. The perforated vegan leather seats are plush, provide good support, and hug you nicely. I sat in two Gravitys, one specced with the $4,200 Tahoe Brown vegan leather seats (really liked that color) and one with the all-black interior. The massaging seats are also surprisingly useful. Unlike the gimmicky ones in many cars, these actually feel great and not like a tiny mouse poking your back. I’d use them regularly if I owned one. The powered second-row seats are roomy and comfortable, with plenty of space for legs and feet. One small gripe I have: the grab handles on the interior feel like very cheap, hollow plastic. Design: The Gravity leans more toward minivan styling than SUV, but I actually think it works. Lucid managed to fit a whopping 120 cubic feet of cargo capacity into this thing. For context, that’s about 24% more than the Tesla Model X (91.6 cu ft), even though the Gravity is an inch shorter. It’s also just 10% less than the Cadillac Escalade IQ EV (131 cu ft), despite the Escalade being more than two feet longer. The 6K OLED panoramic display looks great, but the software felt a little laggy at times and is tough to see in direct sunlight. The steering wheel button design isn’t my favorite, but I do like the flat-top, flat-bottom design, Reminds me of Cybertruck’s wheel. Cargo loading is very convenient. With the air suspension lowered, the rear load floor is super low, making it easy to get things in and out. The trunk opening, though, is oddly shaped. I found the hatch uncomfortably close to my head, but raising the air suspension helps a little. Taller folks may still run into that issue. Showroom Employees: I met three Lucid employees at the showroom, one of whom had worked at Tesla for 10 years. All of them were very nice and knowledgeable. Sound System: It’s VERY good—great bass response, not muddy. It has Dolby Atmos, and it rocks. The Cybertruck still has the best factory sound system I’ve ever heard, but the Gravity’s is still great. ADAS: Unfortunately, I didn’t have much time to try it out, so I can’t give an opinion. But the 360-degree camera view is nice. It makes parking much easier and has a curb-rash alert so you don’t scrape your expensive wheels. Test Drive: The Gravity I drove, including options, was priced at $115,000. The ride felt firmer than I expected, even in the softest air suspension setting, but it was still comfortable. The sportier modes were fun and deliver that classic, quick-acceleration EV experience. The steering feel struck a good balance—sporty, but not tiring for everyday use. Visibility is good, and the glass windshield that extends past your head is cool (though I still think the Model X windshield is more immersive). Charging: The Gravity has native NACS and can charge at speeds up to 220 kW at Tesla Superchargers. In general, the vehicle is capable of up to 400 kW charging speeds. Final Thoughts: As Tesla fans, we can sometimes be tough on non-Tesla EVs, but I think the Gravity SUV is evidence that Tesla’s mission is working: accelerating the advent of sustainable energy. Tesla’s mission and past work helped pave the way for a vehicle like the Lucid Gravity to exist and come to market. While Lucid’s path to profitability is still in question, and while the Gravity is expensive (for now), even from my short time with it, this feels like Lucid’s first truly great product. Only the $94,900 Grand Touring trim is available right now, but the company says the less expensive Touring trim will come out late this year for $79,900. We shall see. More photos and videos of mine in the thread below:

Sawyer Merritt

110,465 Aufrufe • vor 11 Monaten

Today I had my first demo drive in a Tesla. It was also my first time ever sitting in one. This was the first car I’ve ever sat in the driver’s seat of where I didn’t touch the steering wheel for over 20 miles. Before I even got to the car, the people who had demoed it before me were an older married couple who were absolutely euphoric. They thought it was so cool that the car could drive itself. The Tesla employee told me this happens all the time. People come back from demo drives and tell the next test driver that they’re about to have an amazing experience. Little did I know, I’d end up carrying on the torch to the next couple demoing it after me. There was a ton of construction where I demoed the car, and FSD handled the entire drive extremely well. And yes, it can go through a drive-thru and stop at each window. The only thing I had to do was tap the pedal because it wouldn’t leave on its own, but it was still wild seeing the AI stop perfectly at the second window and wait. There are a million things I could write about why a Tesla feels like a better car and how much more it offers compared to a regular car. But for now, I’ll stick to FSD. There were only two moments that made me a little uneasy. The first was pretty minor. The car slightly hesitated going up a driveway, but quickly made up its mind. The second was more noticeable. I didn’t realize the car was nagging me. Once I touched the steering wheel, nothing happened, so I pulled it right a little harder, then let go. After that, the car turned left and crossed a double yellow on a backroad. (and yes I know you can sue the volume knob) I’m not totally sure if it was trying to pull over or what it was doing. I wanted to see how it would handle the situation, but there were cars coming, so I took over and corrected it. One of the coolest moments was when I thought FSD was glitching because it came to a complete stop in the middle of a busy road. Then I looked around and realized why. On the right side, there was a bicyclist waiting at a yellow crosswalk. The cars behind me didn’t honk, and the Tesla stopping actually incentivized another car in the right lane to stop and let him pass. The car is almost too nice to pedestrians, because 99.999% of humans would’ve blown through that, especially with no flashing light. For 99.9% of the drive, the car navigated confidently and smoothly. It was a real “feel the AGI” moment. Please do not let the media, the general public, or anyone else convince you that this technology is just some kind of auto assist or glorified cruise control. This is undoubtedly getting extremely close to feeling superhuman. You still have to pay attention to the road, but after experiencing it myself, I’d be shocked if HW4 Teslas aren’t unsupervised within the next couple years. The car was extremely smooth. There was no harsh braking, and it even avoided something in the road that I didn’t see. Driving with FSD made me realize I probably wasn’t driving as well as I could be. Hopefully, eventually, everyone’s car can be as mindful as a Tesla. I’ve never seen a brand so far removed from the public’s sentiment. I’m so happy I ordered one.
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Today I had my first demo drive in a Tesla. It was also my first time ever sitting in one. This was the first car I’ve ever sat in the driver’s seat of where I didn’t touch the steering wheel for over 20 miles. Before I even got to the car, the people who had demoed it before me were an older married couple who were absolutely euphoric. They thought it was so cool that the car could drive itself. The Tesla employee told me this happens all the time. People come back from demo drives and tell the next test driver that they’re about to have an amazing experience. Little did I know, I’d end up carrying on the torch to the next couple demoing it after me. There was a ton of construction where I demoed the car, and FSD handled the entire drive extremely well. And yes, it can go through a drive-thru and stop at each window. The only thing I had to do was tap the pedal because it wouldn’t leave on its own, but it was still wild seeing the AI stop perfectly at the second window and wait. There are a million things I could write about why a Tesla feels like a better car and how much more it offers compared to a regular car. But for now, I’ll stick to FSD. There were only two moments that made me a little uneasy. The first was pretty minor. The car slightly hesitated going up a driveway, but quickly made up its mind. The second was more noticeable. I didn’t realize the car was nagging me. Once I touched the steering wheel, nothing happened, so I pulled it right a little harder, then let go. After that, the car turned left and crossed a double yellow on a backroad. (and yes I know you can sue the volume knob) I’m not totally sure if it was trying to pull over or what it was doing. I wanted to see how it would handle the situation, but there were cars coming, so I took over and corrected it. One of the coolest moments was when I thought FSD was glitching because it came to a complete stop in the middle of a busy road. Then I looked around and realized why. On the right side, there was a bicyclist waiting at a yellow crosswalk. The cars behind me didn’t honk, and the Tesla stopping actually incentivized another car in the right lane to stop and let him pass. The car is almost too nice to pedestrians, because 99.999% of humans would’ve blown through that, especially with no flashing light. For 99.9% of the drive, the car navigated confidently and smoothly. It was a real “feel the AGI” moment. Please do not let the media, the general public, or anyone else convince you that this technology is just some kind of auto assist or glorified cruise control. This is undoubtedly getting extremely close to feeling superhuman. You still have to pay attention to the road, but after experiencing it myself, I’d be shocked if HW4 Teslas aren’t unsupervised within the next couple years. The car was extremely smooth. There was no harsh braking, and it even avoided something in the road that I didn’t see. Driving with FSD made me realize I probably wasn’t driving as well as I could be. Hopefully, eventually, everyone’s car can be as mindful as a Tesla. I’ve never seen a brand so far removed from the public’s sentiment. I’m so happy I ordered one.

Chris

18,722 Aufrufe • vor 1 Monat

The wait is finally over — Spartan Fuel has arrived. Imagine Maximum muscle growth Skin-splitting pumps Limitless energy Laser-like focus What’s the secret? An all-encompassing, comprehensive intra-workout blend. Everybody knows about the importance of pre and post workout nutrition, but intra-workout nutrition is often neglected. The optimal time to fuel your body is when you are working out, breaking down muscle fibers, expending stored glycogen, and depleting electrolytes. In order to stimulate maximum muscle growth and achieve a vicious, skin-splitting pump, we need to fuel our bodies. Spartan Fuel contains a comprehensive blend of EAAs, fast-acting carbohydrates, electrolytes, and mitochondrial boosters that provides your body with EXACTLY what it needs to perform at it’s highest level. Many of you are probably like myself; you put on your best Walter White impression and whip up a concoction of supplements to try and find that edge. Why should we leave gains on the table, right? Well, I had enough of guessing and watching my supplement cabinet (and monthly bill) continuously grow. And then it struck me. There’s no product that properly combines EAAs, carbs, and electrolytes. After lifting for years, absorbing everything I could on X, I figured it was time to make my own mark. That’s when I decided to connect with the man himself, BowTied Biohacker . Leveraging his expertise and my vision, we created a formula that would change the way we lift forever. We created a product that would be FELT IMMEDIATELY. After sending samples out to a bunch of bros here on X, the feedback was overwhelming — we had struck gold. Other-worldly pumps Gas tanks that were always running on full People crushing their log books, pumping out more reps than ever before… DURING EVERY SET Everyone felt like a million bucks. Once you try it, it you will never want to workout without it. It’s THAT good. We all push ourselves hard. Many of us train to failure. We want to get jacked. We want to get shredded. We all want to unleash our inner warrior in the gym. Now there’s a way to totally lock-in and dominate with intensity during very workout. We all know the feeling. Once in a while we have a workout that just blows us away. We feel stronger than ever, locked-in. We leave the gym with a high that has us feeling on top of the world. Now picture every single workout being that amazing. No other product can deliver the boost you need to consistently perform at the highest level. It’s basically a PED. We didn’t skimp out on quality. We didn’t cut corners. We included EVERYTHING needed to maximize results and boost performance. What many people don’t know is that in order for a supplement to truly be effective, the ingredients need to be dosed in the proper ratios. And that’s just what we did. And just when you think it can’t get any better (there has to be some catch, right…right?) We kept it natural — no artificial ingredients or sweeteners. This is something that digest like a dream, hits the bloodstream instantaneously, and fuels your muscles. Our competitors don’t do this. They sell a bunch of ingredients separately, trying to sell more products. Or they sell proprietary blends and junk loaded with fillers. Spartan Fuel makes your life easier. One tub. One scoop (or 2 if you’re like me and want to go hard). No more wasting money purchasing the entire supplement store. Whether you start drinking it on your way to the gym or as you begin your workout, you will quickly feel the difference. This fall, you can dominate every workout, and supercharge your winter bulk. And this post would not be complete without giving a huge thank you to @Thomas_Salamus_ TJ was instrumental to the birth of Spartan Fuel since Day 1. If you love his products, you’ll love Spartan Fuel. Rest assured, the quality is unmatched. The first batch is limited, so act now and don’t miss this opportunity to unlock your true potential.
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The wait is finally over — Spartan Fuel has arrived. Imagine Maximum muscle growth Skin-splitting pumps Limitless energy Laser-like focus What’s the secret? An all-encompassing, comprehensive intra-workout blend. Everybody knows about the importance of pre and post workout nutrition, but intra-workout nutrition is often neglected. The optimal time to fuel your body is when you are working out, breaking down muscle fibers, expending stored glycogen, and depleting electrolytes. In order to stimulate maximum muscle growth and achieve a vicious, skin-splitting pump, we need to fuel our bodies. Spartan Fuel contains a comprehensive blend of EAAs, fast-acting carbohydrates, electrolytes, and mitochondrial boosters that provides your body with EXACTLY what it needs to perform at it’s highest level. Many of you are probably like myself; you put on your best Walter White impression and whip up a concoction of supplements to try and find that edge. Why should we leave gains on the table, right? Well, I had enough of guessing and watching my supplement cabinet (and monthly bill) continuously grow. And then it struck me. There’s no product that properly combines EAAs, carbs, and electrolytes. After lifting for years, absorbing everything I could on X, I figured it was time to make my own mark. That’s when I decided to connect with the man himself, BowTied Biohacker . Leveraging his expertise and my vision, we created a formula that would change the way we lift forever. We created a product that would be FELT IMMEDIATELY. After sending samples out to a bunch of bros here on X, the feedback was overwhelming — we had struck gold. Other-worldly pumps Gas tanks that were always running on full People crushing their log books, pumping out more reps than ever before… DURING EVERY SET Everyone felt like a million bucks. Once you try it, it you will never want to workout without it. It’s THAT good. We all push ourselves hard. Many of us train to failure. We want to get jacked. We want to get shredded. We all want to unleash our inner warrior in the gym. Now there’s a way to totally lock-in and dominate with intensity during very workout. We all know the feeling. Once in a while we have a workout that just blows us away. We feel stronger than ever, locked-in. We leave the gym with a high that has us feeling on top of the world. Now picture every single workout being that amazing. No other product can deliver the boost you need to consistently perform at the highest level. It’s basically a PED. We didn’t skimp out on quality. We didn’t cut corners. We included EVERYTHING needed to maximize results and boost performance. What many people don’t know is that in order for a supplement to truly be effective, the ingredients need to be dosed in the proper ratios. And that’s just what we did. And just when you think it can’t get any better (there has to be some catch, right…right?) We kept it natural — no artificial ingredients or sweeteners. This is something that digest like a dream, hits the bloodstream instantaneously, and fuels your muscles. Our competitors don’t do this. They sell a bunch of ingredients separately, trying to sell more products. Or they sell proprietary blends and junk loaded with fillers. Spartan Fuel makes your life easier. One tub. One scoop (or 2 if you’re like me and want to go hard). No more wasting money purchasing the entire supplement store. Whether you start drinking it on your way to the gym or as you begin your workout, you will quickly feel the difference. This fall, you can dominate every workout, and supercharge your winter bulk. And this post would not be complete without giving a huge thank you to @Thomas_Salamus_ TJ was instrumental to the birth of Spartan Fuel since Day 1. If you love his products, you’ll love Spartan Fuel. Rest assured, the quality is unmatched. The first batch is limited, so act now and don’t miss this opportunity to unlock your true potential.

Spartan

80,629 Aufrufe • vor 10 Monaten

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THE CLIMAX EVERYONE REMEMBERS IS BUILT FROM THE SECOND WHERE NOTHING HAPPENS A ronin. An army. One continuous shot. The frame most people miss is the one that makes everything land: a beat of pure black right before the explosion. Here’s what that sequence actually teaches: 1. Contrast is something you spend, not a setting you turn on. Stay bright the whole time and you’ve got nowhere left to go when it counts. Hold the darkness long enough and a single bright frame feels blinding. 2. One accent color in a monochrome world hits harder than a full palette. Charcoal, ash, pewter… and exactly one slash of violet neon. Your eye goes straight to it every time. Add a second accent and you halve the power of both. 3. The blackout isn’t just a transition — it’s the turning point. Everything before it is descent. Everything after is release. The structure is disguised as lighting. 4. Flat, faceless enemies aren’t lazy. They’re deliberate hierarchy. Identical grey soldiers and helmets make the ronin pop. Give them personality and you split the audience’s attention for nothing. 5. One continuous shot forces every decision to matter. No cuts to hide behind. Framing, movement, and light have to carry the whole thing — and that’s exactly why it holds up. 6. Quiet frames buy the loud ones. There’s a moment with zero neon — just black and white, hair streaming across the frame like spilled ink. It gives you nothing… which is why the next frame hits so hard. 7. End by taking the light away. Katana lowered, tip toward the ground, no glow left on the steel. The brightest thing in the entire piece disappears. That’s what makes it feel like an ending instead of just a stop. Why this matters: Most people build climaxes by adding more — more light, more motion, more color. This one does it by subtracting first. A dead beat costs nothing and pays off everything that follows. Restraint reads as confidence. Overloading reads as insecurity. Audiences feel it before they can explain it. You don’t need a bigger budget or a better model. You just need the discipline to hold back. The real lesson isn’t “make it dark.” It’s that impact is relative. You can’t have a true peak without spending time in the valley first — and most creators rush straight to the peak, then wonder why nothing lands. This version keeps all your original insights, tightens the flow, and sounds like a thoughtful filmmaker or editor sharing something they noticed — not like generated content. Ready to post.

Nexlow

12,422 Aufrufe • vor 18 Tagen

I told you to claim your free 16GB NVIDIA GPU for learning Local LLMs. Now I’m going to show you how to double its inference speed without touching the hardware. Google Colab gives you an enterprise grade NVIDIA Tesla T4 GPU for free, roughly 4 hours every single day. It is the absolute perfect sandbox for learning AI engineering, testing inference flags, and pushing massive context windows. The local AI timeline is moving way too fast. If you aren't using Multi Token Prediction (MTP) yet, you are leaving massive performance on the table. I just pushed DeepMind’s Gemma 4 26B to 64.9 t/s on this exact free tier. Let's look at the raw benchmark data running on an Ubuntu Linux environment with the latest compiled llama.cpp binaries and quantized GGUFs from Unsloth via HuggingFace: # Qwen 3.5 9B (Dense): Base: [ Prompt: 626.7 t/s | Generation: 21.0 t/s ] With MTP: [ Prompt: 539.1 t/s | Generation: 24.8 t/s ] # Gemma 4 26B QAT (MoE): Base: [ Prompt: 634.2 t/s | Generation: 48.3 t/s ] With MTP: [ Prompt: 572.1 t/s | Generation: 64.9 t/s ] If you are paying attention, this single Colab notebook reveals 3 massive observations about the current state of local LLMs: # 1. The MTP Speedup (Software Overclocking) Standard autoregressive decoding guesses one token at a time. MTP acts like a highly optimized, built in speculative decoder. It predicts multiple future tokens at once and the main model verifies them in parallel. The result? Zero accuracy loss and a massive throughput increase. Gemma jumped from 48 to 65 t/s just by flipping a flag. # 2. The MoE Paradox (Bigger is Faster) How does a 26B parameter model absolutely destroy a 9B model in raw speed on the exact same hardware? Architecture. Qwen 3.5 9B is a dense model. it activates all 9 billion parameters for every single token. Gemma 4 26B is a Mixture of Experts (MoE) model. It routes data efficiently, activating only 4B parameters per token. You get the reasoning capabilities of a 26B model with the compute cost of a 4B model. 3. Thinking Efficiency When I ran the exact same complex prompt on both models, the larger MoE spent significantly fewer "thinking" tokens to arrive at the correct answer. A smarter model doesn't just give better answers; it gets to the point faster, saving you compute cycles and preserving your context window. # Want to run this yourself? Here are the exact llama.cpp CLI commands. For Qwen (MTP is baked into the main model): ./llama-cli -m Qwen3.5-9B-UD-Q4_K_XL.gguf -p "Explain quantum computing." -n 2000 -c 8000 -ngl 99 -fa on --spec-type draft-mtp --spec-draft-n-max 4 --spec-draft-p-min 0.7 For Gemma (Using a separate lightweight draft model): ./llama-cli -m gemma-4-26B-A4B-it-qat-UD-Q4_K_XL.gguf --model-draft mtp-gemma-4-26B-A4B-it.gguf -p "Explain quantum computing." -n 2000 -c 8000 -ngl 99 -fa on --spec-type draft-mtp --spec-draft-n-max 4 --spec-draft-p-min 0.7 Stop waiting for a $3,000 rig. Boot up Colab, pull these models, and start building your stack. I’ve put together a completely free, cell by cell Google Colab notebook that automates this entire workflow so you can test it yourself in 5 minutes and learn. Link to the notebook is in the comments below. Experiemt with different MTP parameters, context windows and post your results in the comments.
0:12

I told you to claim your free 16GB NVIDIA GPU for learning Local LLMs. Now I’m going to show you how to double its inference speed without touching the hardware. Google Colab gives you an enterprise grade NVIDIA Tesla T4 GPU for free, roughly 4 hours every single day. It is the absolute perfect sandbox for learning AI engineering, testing inference flags, and pushing massive context windows. The local AI timeline is moving way too fast. If you aren't using Multi Token Prediction (MTP) yet, you are leaving massive performance on the table. I just pushed DeepMind’s Gemma 4 26B to 64.9 t/s on this exact free tier. Let's look at the raw benchmark data running on an Ubuntu Linux environment with the latest compiled llama.cpp binaries and quantized GGUFs from Unsloth via HuggingFace: # Qwen 3.5 9B (Dense): Base: [ Prompt: 626.7 t/s | Generation: 21.0 t/s ] With MTP: [ Prompt: 539.1 t/s | Generation: 24.8 t/s ] # Gemma 4 26B QAT (MoE): Base: [ Prompt: 634.2 t/s | Generation: 48.3 t/s ] With MTP: [ Prompt: 572.1 t/s | Generation: 64.9 t/s ] If you are paying attention, this single Colab notebook reveals 3 massive observations about the current state of local LLMs: # 1. The MTP Speedup (Software Overclocking) Standard autoregressive decoding guesses one token at a time. MTP acts like a highly optimized, built in speculative decoder. It predicts multiple future tokens at once and the main model verifies them in parallel. The result? Zero accuracy loss and a massive throughput increase. Gemma jumped from 48 to 65 t/s just by flipping a flag. # 2. The MoE Paradox (Bigger is Faster) How does a 26B parameter model absolutely destroy a 9B model in raw speed on the exact same hardware? Architecture. Qwen 3.5 9B is a dense model. it activates all 9 billion parameters for every single token. Gemma 4 26B is a Mixture of Experts (MoE) model. It routes data efficiently, activating only 4B parameters per token. You get the reasoning capabilities of a 26B model with the compute cost of a 4B model. 3. Thinking Efficiency When I ran the exact same complex prompt on both models, the larger MoE spent significantly fewer "thinking" tokens to arrive at the correct answer. A smarter model doesn't just give better answers; it gets to the point faster, saving you compute cycles and preserving your context window. # Want to run this yourself? Here are the exact llama.cpp CLI commands. For Qwen (MTP is baked into the main model): ./llama-cli -m Qwen3.5-9B-UD-Q4_K_XL.gguf -p "Explain quantum computing." -n 2000 -c 8000 -ngl 99 -fa on --spec-type draft-mtp --spec-draft-n-max 4 --spec-draft-p-min 0.7 For Gemma (Using a separate lightweight draft model): ./llama-cli -m gemma-4-26B-A4B-it-qat-UD-Q4_K_XL.gguf --model-draft mtp-gemma-4-26B-A4B-it.gguf -p "Explain quantum computing." -n 2000 -c 8000 -ngl 99 -fa on --spec-type draft-mtp --spec-draft-n-max 4 --spec-draft-p-min 0.7 Stop waiting for a $3,000 rig. Boot up Colab, pull these models, and start building your stack. I’ve put together a completely free, cell by cell Google Colab notebook that automates this entire workflow so you can test it yourself in 5 minutes and learn. Link to the notebook is in the comments below. Experiemt with different MTP parameters, context windows and post your results in the comments.

Alok

170,442 Aufrufe • vor 23 Tagen

Been building this little brand for almost three years now with Grant Eastey and Ejay ODonnell. That’s my wife and I packing our first orders in our tiny garage that couldn’t even fit a car. But in the end the garage found its purpose. There’s something special about just going for it. We just wanted to make some hats for dads that we didn’t see out there for ourselves. Everything else was dad bod humor, mowing the lawn, ugly sneakers, etc. Being a dad is so much more than that. Being a dad really isn’t any of that funny stuff. That’s just the weird brand social media has given us. We’re about to cross half a million hats sold soon and still see ourselves in that tiny garage. Just trying things. Seeing what happens and doubling down if it works. The brand has become so much more than we ever imagined. I don’t enjoy the notion of becoming a “DTC brand”, just become a brand. Become a community and movement. You should see the notes we get from customers saying our hat helped them become better parents, our hat helped them keep trying to have children, our hat brought their kids joy when their dad passed away, our hat showed up and changed the life of someone deciding if they wanted to go on. I don’t care about the metrics. Obsession over CAC and ROAS won’t create this. Building something with meaning is so beyond any of the acronyms we see here on a regular basis. At the end of the day it’s all about trying. You just need to try. It’s as simple as that. I used to think there’s so much to risk by trying. At the end of the day it’s usually ego or fear. And two things are true. Ego decisions are solely based on your perception of what you’ll look like to others, which will never matter in the end. The second thing is fear. Fear usually only lives within YOU. Nowhere else. You make it up and decide how to act from it. Greatness is on the other side of fear. There’s no pressure over here. I was born into project buildings in Poland. “Making it” happened long before the brand started. Making it was getting out of Poland and into the US at the age of 7. On our pod yesterday Nate Lagos📈 asked me why I even stay on X when having a successful brand. The answer is simple. I personally want to give away as much free game as possible. I don’t know it all, not even close. But I want to help others break through and get their ideas into motion. Everyone is charging for courses and slack access. I get it, but it’s not how I care to move. There’s plenty to go around for everyone and if I can help then I’d love to. Gate keeping is weird. Pass it on. Help others win. Looking back at my time in that tiny garage I miss it. The excitement of a new idea forming. Hand packing every order and writing notes. Not caring if it works but trying and having fun. Going for it. To this day. 95% of all creative is Canva and iPhone. Free Shopify theme. I run all marketing. No employees. Great partners. It’s beautiful. One more time. JUST GO FOR IT.
0:15

Been building this little brand for almost three years now with Grant Eastey and Ejay ODonnell. That’s my wife and I packing our first orders in our tiny garage that couldn’t even fit a car. But in the end the garage found its purpose. There’s something special about just going for it. We just wanted to make some hats for dads that we didn’t see out there for ourselves. Everything else was dad bod humor, mowing the lawn, ugly sneakers, etc. Being a dad is so much more than that. Being a dad really isn’t any of that funny stuff. That’s just the weird brand social media has given us. We’re about to cross half a million hats sold soon and still see ourselves in that tiny garage. Just trying things. Seeing what happens and doubling down if it works. The brand has become so much more than we ever imagined. I don’t enjoy the notion of becoming a “DTC brand”, just become a brand. Become a community and movement. You should see the notes we get from customers saying our hat helped them become better parents, our hat helped them keep trying to have children, our hat brought their kids joy when their dad passed away, our hat showed up and changed the life of someone deciding if they wanted to go on. I don’t care about the metrics. Obsession over CAC and ROAS won’t create this. Building something with meaning is so beyond any of the acronyms we see here on a regular basis. At the end of the day it’s all about trying. You just need to try. It’s as simple as that. I used to think there’s so much to risk by trying. At the end of the day it’s usually ego or fear. And two things are true. Ego decisions are solely based on your perception of what you’ll look like to others, which will never matter in the end. The second thing is fear. Fear usually only lives within YOU. Nowhere else. You make it up and decide how to act from it. Greatness is on the other side of fear. There’s no pressure over here. I was born into project buildings in Poland. “Making it” happened long before the brand started. Making it was getting out of Poland and into the US at the age of 7. On our pod yesterday Nate Lagos📈 asked me why I even stay on X when having a successful brand. The answer is simple. I personally want to give away as much free game as possible. I don’t know it all, not even close. But I want to help others break through and get their ideas into motion. Everyone is charging for courses and slack access. I get it, but it’s not how I care to move. There’s plenty to go around for everyone and if I can help then I’d love to. Gate keeping is weird. Pass it on. Help others win. Looking back at my time in that tiny garage I miss it. The excitement of a new idea forming. Hand packing every order and writing notes. Not caring if it works but trying and having fun. Going for it. To this day. 95% of all creative is Canva and iPhone. Free Shopify theme. I run all marketing. No employees. Great partners. It’s beautiful. One more time. JUST GO FOR IT.

Bart

10,542 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr

Oh sweetheart… I really hoped we wouldn’t have to do this. Especially on Thanksgiving Eve. But since you’ve decided to publicly rewrite history with your little meltdown today, buckle up. We’re taking a field trip into the saga of one of the many bargain-bin ratchets my ex cheated on me with. Let’s begin. Back in May, YOU Chelsea slid into my Facebook messages out of nowhere (Screen Recording 1), foaming at the mouth because you thought I sent you a friend request. I have over 2,000 pending requests. If I accidentally tapped yours while scrolling, congratulations on the high point of your decade. Your hostile meltdown over a friend request was… honestly, a medical red flag. So I blocked you. Naturally, you slithered over to Twitter next (Screen Recording 2) because you were blocked on Facebook. At this point I’m thinking, “Why is this woman obsessed with me over a friend request?” I’d asked my friends if they knew you, they had no clue. I asked Aidan if he knew who you were. Aidan told me you were just a fan, a nobody. I asked why you’d send me these weird messages, “He has a lot of crazy fans and gets tons of crazy messages,” he said. And wow, did you prove that correct. I blocked you there too. End of story… until it wasn’t. Fast forward to June 18. I discovered you were sexting Aidan in April during a break we had. Gross, but whatever. We stayed together a bit longer before officially breaking up in July. A week later, an account magically appears: Mere’s Diary. Posting vomit about me and the breakup, a breakup nobody knew about yet. And who was this brand-new hate account tagging? Your tiny burner account. The one with no followers. That nobody else could possibly know existed. What an incredible coincidence. Almost miraculous. And like divine intervention, the account vanished the second it was brought to Aidan’s attention. Shocking. Fast-forward to today, I finish work, and here you are– proudly teaming up with the Ratchet Voldemort Squad, posting random screenshots, private conversations, and whatever scraps Aidan tossed you to weaponize against me. Cute hobby. And the icing? I checked my spam folder and found more messages from you on 11/6/25 at 4:04 AM (Screen Recording 3), threatening to “be your worst fucking nightmare.” You know what’s really scary? Your sleep schedule. Yet somehow I’m the one being accused of stalking YOU? Girl. You can’t even lie convincingly. Let’s talk about these “unknown calls”: Let’s see actual proof you received them, because you should absolutely be contacting police if someone is allegedly calling you thousands of times. Way more effective than sending deranged 4am threats that sat in my spam folder til today. Show proof I had anything to do with them. Spoiler: you can’t. Because I didn’t. And because you’re lying. The extent of my communications with you is right here in the screen recordings. That’s it. That’s the whole story. Everything else is just your delusion dressed up as content. Let me recap this for the people in the back: • YOU messaged ME first, unprovoked. • YOU harassed me over a friend request I probably tapped by accident. • YOU made a fake account about me to tag YOURSELF with. • YOU have been switching accounts like it’s a buy-one-get-one special. • And now YOU are doing Aidan’s dirty work, because apparently you’re ratchet #3 in the rotation this week. I’ve never publicly discussed Aidan’s cheating because, unlike you, I have dignity. Despite all the one-sided screenshots that have leaked, painting a very inaccurate picture of a private relationship, I haven't shared any of his messages or fought back. But since one of the Dollar Tree side chicks is now trying to rewrite my life for clout, here we are. I hope people are starting to realize that I’m not the one instigating any of this as I’d really rather keep private things private. Almost like this little “Temu Storm” of gutter muppets is coordinated on behalf of someone who wants to paint himself as the victim. I offered to “take that walk” with the ratchet who eats paper and the ratchet who suddenly became beloved this week after faking rape for a year, but apparently they sent the understudy instead. Anyway, Chelsea—keep posting your random, context-free screenshots. Keep playing the victim. Keep pretending you’re being terrorized by someone who doesn’t even have your phone number. But before you claim 2,000 calls again, maybe — just maybe — show a single shred of proof. I’ll wait, bitch. PS-I feel like tonight is the perfect time to premiere Jess’s new video. Spoiler alert- it’ll be way better than the one Kate made.
0:23

Oh sweetheart… I really hoped we wouldn’t have to do this. Especially on Thanksgiving Eve. But since you’ve decided to publicly rewrite history with your little meltdown today, buckle up. We’re taking a field trip into the saga of one of the many bargain-bin ratchets my ex cheated on me with. Let’s begin. Back in May, YOU Chelsea slid into my Facebook messages out of nowhere (Screen Recording 1), foaming at the mouth because you thought I sent you a friend request. I have over 2,000 pending requests. If I accidentally tapped yours while scrolling, congratulations on the high point of your decade. Your hostile meltdown over a friend request was… honestly, a medical red flag. So I blocked you. Naturally, you slithered over to Twitter next (Screen Recording 2) because you were blocked on Facebook. At this point I’m thinking, “Why is this woman obsessed with me over a friend request?” I’d asked my friends if they knew you, they had no clue. I asked Aidan if he knew who you were. Aidan told me you were just a fan, a nobody. I asked why you’d send me these weird messages, “He has a lot of crazy fans and gets tons of crazy messages,” he said. And wow, did you prove that correct. I blocked you there too. End of story… until it wasn’t. Fast forward to June 18. I discovered you were sexting Aidan in April during a break we had. Gross, but whatever. We stayed together a bit longer before officially breaking up in July. A week later, an account magically appears: Mere’s Diary. Posting vomit about me and the breakup, a breakup nobody knew about yet. And who was this brand-new hate account tagging? Your tiny burner account. The one with no followers. That nobody else could possibly know existed. What an incredible coincidence. Almost miraculous. And like divine intervention, the account vanished the second it was brought to Aidan’s attention. Shocking. Fast-forward to today, I finish work, and here you are– proudly teaming up with the Ratchet Voldemort Squad, posting random screenshots, private conversations, and whatever scraps Aidan tossed you to weaponize against me. Cute hobby. And the icing? I checked my spam folder and found more messages from you on 11/6/25 at 4:04 AM (Screen Recording 3), threatening to “be your worst fucking nightmare.” You know what’s really scary? Your sleep schedule. Yet somehow I’m the one being accused of stalking YOU? Girl. You can’t even lie convincingly. Let’s talk about these “unknown calls”: Let’s see actual proof you received them, because you should absolutely be contacting police if someone is allegedly calling you thousands of times. Way more effective than sending deranged 4am threats that sat in my spam folder til today. Show proof I had anything to do with them. Spoiler: you can’t. Because I didn’t. And because you’re lying. The extent of my communications with you is right here in the screen recordings. That’s it. That’s the whole story. Everything else is just your delusion dressed up as content. Let me recap this for the people in the back: • YOU messaged ME first, unprovoked. • YOU harassed me over a friend request I probably tapped by accident. • YOU made a fake account about me to tag YOURSELF with. • YOU have been switching accounts like it’s a buy-one-get-one special. • And now YOU are doing Aidan’s dirty work, because apparently you’re ratchet #3 in the rotation this week. I’ve never publicly discussed Aidan’s cheating because, unlike you, I have dignity. Despite all the one-sided screenshots that have leaked, painting a very inaccurate picture of a private relationship, I haven't shared any of his messages or fought back. But since one of the Dollar Tree side chicks is now trying to rewrite my life for clout, here we are. I hope people are starting to realize that I’m not the one instigating any of this as I’d really rather keep private things private. Almost like this little “Temu Storm” of gutter muppets is coordinated on behalf of someone who wants to paint himself as the victim. I offered to “take that walk” with the ratchet who eats paper and the ratchet who suddenly became beloved this week after faking rape for a year, but apparently they sent the understudy instead. Anyway, Chelsea—keep posting your random, context-free screenshots. Keep playing the victim. Keep pretending you’re being terrorized by someone who doesn’t even have your phone number. But before you claim 2,000 calls again, maybe — just maybe — show a single shred of proof. I’ll wait, bitch. PS-I feel like tonight is the perfect time to premiere Jess’s new video. Spoiler alert- it’ll be way better than the one Kate made.

The old M can’t come to the phone right now

1,196,178 Aufrufe • vor 8 Monaten

Lads. Sit down and give me your ear a while, for I have watched from the water long enough and the hour is upon us whether we have the stomach for it or not. You remember. Or your fathers told you, or their fathers did, and the knowledge of it is in the marrow of you whether you drew breath in those days or not. The moors in the grey hour before dawn. Wet heather soft under the boot. Peat smoke rising from a low stone chimney a mile out across the bog, thin as a prayer. A sky the colour of a gun barrel and the gulls lamenting above the headland. The smell of turf burning, and wet wool, and the ferrous tang of the sea when the wind swung around out of the Atlantic and put the taste of iron on your tongue. A man could walk that land and know every stone of it was his by inheritance, because his grandfather had broken his back upon it, and his grandfather before him, back through the generations until you reach men whose names are lost and whose bones are in the soil you are standing on. The potato fields. God be good to us, the potato fields. Lazy beds cut straight as a gunwale, the ridges black and shining after a night of rain, women bent double with creels lashed to their backs and the children at their skirts, drawing the crop up by the hand for there was never any other means devised nor wanted. Hands split open at the knuckles and never entirely healed in this life. Hunger within living memory. Grandmothers who had seen the blight with their own eyes and would not speak of it from the year of it until the day they were laid down, save that a crust was kept always on the dresser which no soul in that house was permitted to touch. Not ever. Not for any reason under heaven. And the chimney sweeps. Wee lads no heavier than a sack of meal, black to the bone with soot, their lungs ruined before they were old enough to marry and old men entirely by thirty. Up the flues at first light, the skin worn off them by the brick, eyes crimson at the rim, breathing the black in with every draw of air. And the coal miners a half mile beneath our feet, down in the wet dark, the roof of the world muttering over their heads, the canary gone silent, a man's whole existence measured out in the shilling a ton and the dust he carried home in his chest to cough up of a Sunday morning into a rag. Fathers who descended and were never hauled up again. Widows at the pit head with the shawl drawn over the head and no tears remaining in them for they had spent those long ago. That was the tariff paid to keep the hearth lit. That was the reckoning of being warm in winter in the Ireland that was. And after the labouring week, Friday evening, and a man had earned the peace of what followed. Home first. Peeled the day off him in the yard. A shower of ice cold moor river water out of a tin bucket punctured with holes, hung on a nail on the gable wall, the water running clean down the back of him and carrying the week's dust and sweat away into the drain. Scrubbed till the skin was pink beneath the grime. Clean shirt laid out by the wife. The hair combed down with a drop of water. Then, and only then, did a man set himself to the table. A meat pie from the baker, tenpence if he was known to you, a shilling and no change if he was not, put down upon a proper plate. Fish and chips for threepence, the salt and vinegar soaked through the newspaper, but carried home and ate slowly at your own table with your people around you, not walked with through the streets like some vagrant tinker off the road. A man ate as a man who had earned his portion, for he had. And later, with the dishes cleared and the kettle set, down the road to the tavern. Low beams black with a century of smoke. A turf fire muttering in the grate. The air thick with pipe smoke and the vapour of wet overcoats steaming themselves dry on the backs of chairs. A pint of stout, cold and black as a cove at midnight, elevenpence laid down on the counter, a head on it thick enough to strike a match upon. A second one because you had it coming to you and no man present would dispute it. A fiddle starting up in the corner of its own accord. The old men in the snug who remembered matters the history books had long since mislaid. A song before the bolt was thrown on the door. The walk home beneath a firmament crowded with stars, the stout warm in the gut of you, the week behind you, and your own door waiting with the latch unlocked for you had no enemies in that parish. That was the country. That was the covenant. Honest labour, plain food, a cold wash, a hot meal, a cold pint, your own tongue in your own mouth, your own soil beneath your boots, and no man standing above you save the Almighty Himself. Now regard her. Regard her close. The fields disposed of to men who have never set foot upon them and never shall. The harbours signed away by the stroke of a pen in a room you were not admitted to, and foreign keels dragging out of our waters the living that sustained this island for a thousand years, while our own boats rot at their moorings for want of a quota. The tradesmen undercut by imported labour and imported goods. The shops shuttered along every main street from Donegal to Cork. The young ones scattered to London and Sydney and Boston and the Gulf because there is nothing remaining for them beneath their own roof. And the entirety of this rotten arrangement dressed up in the soft mannerly language of progress by men in towers of glass who could not tell a lazy bed from a grave, nor a trawler from a tugboat, nor an honest day's work from a pension plan. And now they arrive with the next imposition. A digital identity. A number assigned to each soul. A card required to buy your bread. A code required to draw your own earnings out of your own account. A file kept on every man, woman and child from the cradle forward. Permission asked to move. Permission asked to speak. Permission asked to earn. A levy upon every breath drawn and a regulation upon every step taken. No. And no again. And no for a third time so there is no misunderstanding of it. We do not require your digital identity. We did not request it. We did not vote upon it. We do not consent to it. We do not need your permission to exist upon the soil our forefathers are buried in. We are a free people. We have carried ourselves this far upon our own two backs. Through famine and empire and civil war and black lung and blight and the emigrant ship out of Cobh, we have come this distance under our own steam, and the arrangement appears to be serving us well enough without your intervention. We buried our own. We fed our own. We raised our own roofs and took our own fish and reared our own children in our own tongue. We are in your debt for nothing. Not a signature. Not a biometric scan. Not a single solitary inch. And while we are upon the subject, let us speak plainly of the tax man, for he has gone too long without proper introduction. The tax collector and the tax man are the one article under two names, and the article is a parasite. There is no dressing it up finer than that. A man who produces nothing, who grows nothing, who catches nothing, who builds nothing, who mends nothing, who has never in his professional life lifted anything heavier than a pen, and who arrives at your door with the full apparatus of the state at his back to carry off the fruits of labour he did not perform. He is a middleman between your sweat and some scheme dreamt up in a committee room by his own kind, and the great majority of what he takes is consumed by the machinery of the taking itself before ever a penny of it reaches the road or the hospital or the schoolhouse he claims to be funding. And I will go further while I have the floor. Finance itself, the whole apparatus of it, money breeding money in the dark without a hand laid upon a tool or a spade turned in the earth, is slavery dressed in a good suit. It is the oldest swindle known to man and it has never been anything other. A man who produces nothing yet lives off the productive labour of others through the charging of interest upon money conjured out of nothing is a parasite of a rarer and more refined order than the tax man, but a parasite all the same, and between the pair of them they have the working people of this island bled white and lectured at for the pleasure. A man who will not work with his hands, nor with his back, nor with his mind at some honest problem of the real physical world, is no man that I recognise. He is a ledger entry in a suit. The country was not built by ledger entries. The country was built by farmers and fishermen and masons and smiths and sweeps and miners and shipwrights and midwives and mothers, and those are the people whose say should carry in her councils, and no other. Here is what I put to you. Let each man and woman of this island direct the first tenth of their earnings themselves, by their own judgement, to the purpose they see as worthy. The school down the road. The lifeboat station. The hospice. The widow on the corner. The roof of the chapel. The harbour wall. Whatever it may be. Let the people who earned the money decide where the money travels. You will find the roads mended and the ports dredged and the schools standing and the old ones cared for inside of five years, and done better and for less, because the hand that earned the coin knows the weight of it and will not squander it upon consultants and committees. And let us have done with the paper currency and the numbers in a screen that can be frozen at the whim of a clerk in a tower. Bring back the coin. Gold for the great transactions. Silver for the weekly commerce of a working life. Copper for the small change of the day. Metal you can bite. Metal you can weigh. Metal that cannot be conjured out of nothing by a keystroke, nor erased out of existence by another. Real money for real labour. A coin in the hand is a free man's wage. A number in a database is a collar around a free man's neck, and they are fitting that collar now while we stand arguing over the colour of it. Feel it in your gut. That is not nothing. That is your blood relating to you what your ears will not hear. That is every forebear who starved and fought and coughed the black dust into a rag and descended the shaft regardless, standing at your shoulder and saying no further. Not one more field. Not one more harbour. Not one more son upon a plane. Not one more free man converted into a number in a ledger for the convenience of the parasites. This is the hour. Make no error about it. Ireland is redeemed in this generation or she is lost beyond recovery, and every true son and daughter of her knows it in the marrow. There is no middle ground remaining. There is no waiting it out. There is standing now, upon your own two feet, or there is watching her go under the waves for the last and final time. So stand. Stand with your farmers. Stand with your fishermen. Stand with your tradesmen and your miners and your sweeps and your mothers and your old ones. Raise the tricolour. Speak the tongue. Walk the land. Hold the line in the streets of every town and city and do not break it, for they are relying upon you to break and to go home and to forget by Tuesday. She is calling her children home. Every stone of her, every breaker on her western shore, every acre of wet heather and every coal in every hearth the length and breadth of her is calling. Answer her. Take her back. Every field, every harbour, every last inch of her. Take her back, or lose her entirely. There is no third road open to us.
0:10

Lads. Sit down and give me your ear a while, for I have watched from the water long enough and the hour is upon us whether we have the stomach for it or not. You remember. Or your fathers told you, or their fathers did, and the knowledge of it is in the marrow of you whether you drew breath in those days or not. The moors in the grey hour before dawn. Wet heather soft under the boot. Peat smoke rising from a low stone chimney a mile out across the bog, thin as a prayer. A sky the colour of a gun barrel and the gulls lamenting above the headland. The smell of turf burning, and wet wool, and the ferrous tang of the sea when the wind swung around out of the Atlantic and put the taste of iron on your tongue. A man could walk that land and know every stone of it was his by inheritance, because his grandfather had broken his back upon it, and his grandfather before him, back through the generations until you reach men whose names are lost and whose bones are in the soil you are standing on. The potato fields. God be good to us, the potato fields. Lazy beds cut straight as a gunwale, the ridges black and shining after a night of rain, women bent double with creels lashed to their backs and the children at their skirts, drawing the crop up by the hand for there was never any other means devised nor wanted. Hands split open at the knuckles and never entirely healed in this life. Hunger within living memory. Grandmothers who had seen the blight with their own eyes and would not speak of it from the year of it until the day they were laid down, save that a crust was kept always on the dresser which no soul in that house was permitted to touch. Not ever. Not for any reason under heaven. And the chimney sweeps. Wee lads no heavier than a sack of meal, black to the bone with soot, their lungs ruined before they were old enough to marry and old men entirely by thirty. Up the flues at first light, the skin worn off them by the brick, eyes crimson at the rim, breathing the black in with every draw of air. And the coal miners a half mile beneath our feet, down in the wet dark, the roof of the world muttering over their heads, the canary gone silent, a man's whole existence measured out in the shilling a ton and the dust he carried home in his chest to cough up of a Sunday morning into a rag. Fathers who descended and were never hauled up again. Widows at the pit head with the shawl drawn over the head and no tears remaining in them for they had spent those long ago. That was the tariff paid to keep the hearth lit. That was the reckoning of being warm in winter in the Ireland that was. And after the labouring week, Friday evening, and a man had earned the peace of what followed. Home first. Peeled the day off him in the yard. A shower of ice cold moor river water out of a tin bucket punctured with holes, hung on a nail on the gable wall, the water running clean down the back of him and carrying the week's dust and sweat away into the drain. Scrubbed till the skin was pink beneath the grime. Clean shirt laid out by the wife. The hair combed down with a drop of water. Then, and only then, did a man set himself to the table. A meat pie from the baker, tenpence if he was known to you, a shilling and no change if he was not, put down upon a proper plate. Fish and chips for threepence, the salt and vinegar soaked through the newspaper, but carried home and ate slowly at your own table with your people around you, not walked with through the streets like some vagrant tinker off the road. A man ate as a man who had earned his portion, for he had. And later, with the dishes cleared and the kettle set, down the road to the tavern. Low beams black with a century of smoke. A turf fire muttering in the grate. The air thick with pipe smoke and the vapour of wet overcoats steaming themselves dry on the backs of chairs. A pint of stout, cold and black as a cove at midnight, elevenpence laid down on the counter, a head on it thick enough to strike a match upon. A second one because you had it coming to you and no man present would dispute it. A fiddle starting up in the corner of its own accord. The old men in the snug who remembered matters the history books had long since mislaid. A song before the bolt was thrown on the door. The walk home beneath a firmament crowded with stars, the stout warm in the gut of you, the week behind you, and your own door waiting with the latch unlocked for you had no enemies in that parish. That was the country. That was the covenant. Honest labour, plain food, a cold wash, a hot meal, a cold pint, your own tongue in your own mouth, your own soil beneath your boots, and no man standing above you save the Almighty Himself. Now regard her. Regard her close. The fields disposed of to men who have never set foot upon them and never shall. The harbours signed away by the stroke of a pen in a room you were not admitted to, and foreign keels dragging out of our waters the living that sustained this island for a thousand years, while our own boats rot at their moorings for want of a quota. The tradesmen undercut by imported labour and imported goods. The shops shuttered along every main street from Donegal to Cork. The young ones scattered to London and Sydney and Boston and the Gulf because there is nothing remaining for them beneath their own roof. And the entirety of this rotten arrangement dressed up in the soft mannerly language of progress by men in towers of glass who could not tell a lazy bed from a grave, nor a trawler from a tugboat, nor an honest day's work from a pension plan. And now they arrive with the next imposition. A digital identity. A number assigned to each soul. A card required to buy your bread. A code required to draw your own earnings out of your own account. A file kept on every man, woman and child from the cradle forward. Permission asked to move. Permission asked to speak. Permission asked to earn. A levy upon every breath drawn and a regulation upon every step taken. No. And no again. And no for a third time so there is no misunderstanding of it. We do not require your digital identity. We did not request it. We did not vote upon it. We do not consent to it. We do not need your permission to exist upon the soil our forefathers are buried in. We are a free people. We have carried ourselves this far upon our own two backs. Through famine and empire and civil war and black lung and blight and the emigrant ship out of Cobh, we have come this distance under our own steam, and the arrangement appears to be serving us well enough without your intervention. We buried our own. We fed our own. We raised our own roofs and took our own fish and reared our own children in our own tongue. We are in your debt for nothing. Not a signature. Not a biometric scan. Not a single solitary inch. And while we are upon the subject, let us speak plainly of the tax man, for he has gone too long without proper introduction. The tax collector and the tax man are the one article under two names, and the article is a parasite. There is no dressing it up finer than that. A man who produces nothing, who grows nothing, who catches nothing, who builds nothing, who mends nothing, who has never in his professional life lifted anything heavier than a pen, and who arrives at your door with the full apparatus of the state at his back to carry off the fruits of labour he did not perform. He is a middleman between your sweat and some scheme dreamt up in a committee room by his own kind, and the great majority of what he takes is consumed by the machinery of the taking itself before ever a penny of it reaches the road or the hospital or the schoolhouse he claims to be funding. And I will go further while I have the floor. Finance itself, the whole apparatus of it, money breeding money in the dark without a hand laid upon a tool or a spade turned in the earth, is slavery dressed in a good suit. It is the oldest swindle known to man and it has never been anything other. A man who produces nothing yet lives off the productive labour of others through the charging of interest upon money conjured out of nothing is a parasite of a rarer and more refined order than the tax man, but a parasite all the same, and between the pair of them they have the working people of this island bled white and lectured at for the pleasure. A man who will not work with his hands, nor with his back, nor with his mind at some honest problem of the real physical world, is no man that I recognise. He is a ledger entry in a suit. The country was not built by ledger entries. The country was built by farmers and fishermen and masons and smiths and sweeps and miners and shipwrights and midwives and mothers, and those are the people whose say should carry in her councils, and no other. Here is what I put to you. Let each man and woman of this island direct the first tenth of their earnings themselves, by their own judgement, to the purpose they see as worthy. The school down the road. The lifeboat station. The hospice. The widow on the corner. The roof of the chapel. The harbour wall. Whatever it may be. Let the people who earned the money decide where the money travels. You will find the roads mended and the ports dredged and the schools standing and the old ones cared for inside of five years, and done better and for less, because the hand that earned the coin knows the weight of it and will not squander it upon consultants and committees. And let us have done with the paper currency and the numbers in a screen that can be frozen at the whim of a clerk in a tower. Bring back the coin. Gold for the great transactions. Silver for the weekly commerce of a working life. Copper for the small change of the day. Metal you can bite. Metal you can weigh. Metal that cannot be conjured out of nothing by a keystroke, nor erased out of existence by another. Real money for real labour. A coin in the hand is a free man's wage. A number in a database is a collar around a free man's neck, and they are fitting that collar now while we stand arguing over the colour of it. Feel it in your gut. That is not nothing. That is your blood relating to you what your ears will not hear. That is every forebear who starved and fought and coughed the black dust into a rag and descended the shaft regardless, standing at your shoulder and saying no further. Not one more field. Not one more harbour. Not one more son upon a plane. Not one more free man converted into a number in a ledger for the convenience of the parasites. This is the hour. Make no error about it. Ireland is redeemed in this generation or she is lost beyond recovery, and every true son and daughter of her knows it in the marrow. There is no middle ground remaining. There is no waiting it out. There is standing now, upon your own two feet, or there is watching her go under the waves for the last and final time. So stand. Stand with your farmers. Stand with your fishermen. Stand with your tradesmen and your miners and your sweeps and your mothers and your old ones. Raise the tricolour. Speak the tongue. Walk the land. Hold the line in the streets of every town and city and do not break it, for they are relying upon you to break and to go home and to forget by Tuesday. She is calling her children home. Every stone of her, every breaker on her western shore, every acre of wet heather and every coal in every hearth the length and breadth of her is calling. Answer her. Take her back. Every field, every harbour, every last inch of her. Take her back, or lose her entirely. There is no third road open to us.

SiriusB

15,437 Aufrufe • vor 3 Monaten

I've bought over 30 RV & MH parks in the last 5 years. Lately? 2 per month. Want our playbook? Here ya go: How to buy a small, off-market mobile home or RV park that can 2x your money in 1-2 years, in 5 steps: 1. Pick a city in a red state. The two biggest factors: Crime & unemployment rates Crime: CrimeGrade . org Unemployment: SimpleMaps . com Cities with 3k - 30k people are best. This is the sweet spot for enough population & not to much competition. You want parks with almost no web presence & little to no reviews. A DG nearby is great. Walmart is better. But remember, “if no DG, it ain’t for me.” If there's a Whole Foods you ain't getting a good deal, I promise. Growth rate is good too, but #3 to the two above. Don't worry about the path of progress as much as other asset classes might. 2. Find the leads Get on Google Maps and search "mobile home park" in your target area(s). Avoid NY & CA (not landlord friendly). Make a Google sheet of the leads & use Loom to record your screen. Spend 30 mins doing this. OR, use something like Outscraper to do it for you. Be warned though, that if you don’t do this yourself the scraped results may not be as accurate. If you’re targeting a smaller geographical area I would do it by hand. If a whole state, use software. You’re looking for phone numbers. Use SearchBug . com to see if cell or landline for pennies. Or Phone Validator Go to Upwork and hire a virtual assistant to keep doing this for you, assuming you are targeting a larger area. They will cost around $4/hour. Use that same Loom link in your posting so applicants can see what the job will entail. When working, Loom it! You’ll never know when you’ll need it. When in doubt, Loom it out! More leads = better deals. 3. Call the leads Call up the owners and be real. Don't talk about any accolades. He doesn't care and it will only hurt you. You're a hard working country boy. You have a wife and kids (I hope you actually do). Are you a democrat? Don't tell the owner. (Sorry, democrats). Here's your general pitch: "I'm not a broker, I'm just looking for some good real estate and don't want to waste your time with a lowball offer. I can pay cash and close fast" Tell him about your wife and kids and what you do on the weekend. Most importantly, LISTEN. He's going to talk your ear off. This is a good sign. 4. Ask the right questions Ask him: How many pad sites? How many of those have a unit on them? How many of the units are RVs? (It's common for there to be a mix of MH/RV) Any single family homes on the property? Rent? Are the units park owned or tenant owned? (this is key) If a mix, what's the mix? Park-owned homes you have to maintain. AVOID AT ALL COSTS. Tenant-owned homes are key (lot rent). This means you only rent out the land and underground infrastructure. Depending on the state, sometimes you can sell back or give away the park-owned units to the tenants to absolve yourself of maintenance. Check the laws! You'll command half the rent but enjoy 90% less hassles. $250 - $350 is common lot rent in the midwest and SE. What's the occupancy and rental amount of each type of unit? Any outbuildings on the property? Septic or city sewer? If septic, conventional or aerobic? Sewer is best. Septic isn’t a deal breaker but you REALLY want to have it inspected. If there’s a lagoon or wastewater treatment plant I want you to throw that phone as far as you can, block their number and never speak of it again. Within city limits or no? City limits are best but rare. Outstanding municipal or zoning issues? How much is insurance? How much is landscaping? Asphalt, cement or dirt roads? Condition of the roads? Any drainage issues? Is there a manager? What do you pay them? (Best if no manager) Any pending litigation? What are total collections? How do people pay rent? How many are delinquent? What condition are the units in? Do you have a lien on the property? How long have you owned it? 30 or 50 amp? City maintained streets? City water or well? City is best. Keep in mind, that’s a lot of questions to ask. You have to feel it out, if he’s being standoffish, don’t keep pushing, just call back. This isn’t a used car lot, this is a relationship you’re trying to build. Don’t try and close on this first call. The key question: "If we were to make a deal, what's a ballpark offer you'd expect?" NEVER anchor him with the phrase "bottom dollar." Using the word "ballpark" keeps numbers loose. Whatever number he says, you want to pause and hem and haw over it. Embrace the silence and awkwardness. Back to car sales, they call this the “silent walkaround” when valuing a trade-in. Don’t say a thing about the asset, but point out the flaws with your body language. Touch the dents and scratches as you pause. Do the phone version of this. Tell him you'll get back to him tomorrow. Thank him profusely for his time and congratulate him on the park he's built. 5. Underwrite Before you do anything, check with the city to ensure the park is in good standing. Get that in writing. Don't trust the seller. Buyers are liars? So are sellers! Now's time to crunch numbers: What's a cap rate? The net operating income of the park divided by the price you'd like to pay. If you want your money back in 5 years and you're willing to pay up to $1m, you need $200k net profit per year. This is a 20% cap rate (20 cap). It's aggressive but possible on a smaller, rural park. (Yes, it really is, even in 2023) You probably won’t find a park that big in a small town for a good price, though. Start w/ a smaller park & higher cap rate. More room for error. $300k - $1m purchase price. First do some market research: Remember all your leads? Call competing parks as a potential tenant and ask what their lot rent is. Put this in a spreadsheet to get average lot rent & park-owned home rent. Keep in mind many of these parks will be undercharging as well. It's common to find parks charging $100 that could charge $250. When calculating cap rate BE CONSERVATIVE. Don't count on 100% of people staying if you increase rents, even though most will. Use $190 to be safe. Shoot for a park that will net $100k/year after rent increases that you pay no more than $600k for. It’s hard but not impossible. Or maybe you find a $30k/year park to get your feet wet. At least you're in the game. The more leads you scrape, the better chance of finding this park. Shoot for as much seller financing as you can get. Finance the rest with friends/family or savings. Once you find this park, get it under contract. Use a standard, simple real estate form that you can find on your state's real estate commission website. Texas' is called TREC. Yes, get it under contract before seeing it. Put down earnest and option money, and then go see it. Don't dress like a city slicker. Be personable and be willing to stay a while and BS. Drive a Tesla? Rent a truck. Drive a Prius? Just quit. Inspect the condition of the units, even if you aren't buying them Crappy units = more tenants willing to abandon them. And they aren't cheap to remove or move. Verify everything he said on the call If all looks good, start on the inspections: Septic or sewer lines SFH home inspection. Check with the city for outstanding issues or litigation Check for liens Wastewater treatment plant? If so, abandon ship! Electrical infrastructure Use professionals for all of these. Ask for: Rent rolls. They will likely be handwritten, that’s ok. Bank statements. Ask to speak to a few tenants to get their experience. Inspect their lease. Ask for vendor invoices or history of payments. Ask to speak to vendors. At some point before you close, list the property on Craigslist, FB Marketplace and Zillow. See how demand is for vacancies. If all still looks good, close on the property. 6. Post-closing strategy Meet all the tenants in the evening, they're at work during the day. Shake their hands. Tell them you want their experience to be amazing & you want them to stay Give them your number Ask what can be fixed If fixes are cheap, do them ASAP Tell that tenant once fixes are made. Address them by name. Clean up the park. Hire a tree guy to clear out low hanging branches. Do some simple landscaping. Find the tattletale in the park and get all the dirt. Who are the druggies and abusive husbands? Get them out ASAP if you can. They are much more expensive than the temporary vacancy hit. Fix potholes and drainage issues. ADD VALUE. Show you care. Wait a couple months before making any changes. Bring lot rents closer to market. Be upfront about this. They will understand if they've been getting a deal. Give people 2-3 more months' notice to give them time. Keep renting out vacancies at new price. This isn't self storage. You won't raise rents yearly. Don't be a jerk. Let them know what to expect. Once rents are raised and park is stabilized, you are 9-12 months in. Search Loopnet for the most active MHP brokers Hire the best one & pay what he or she commands. Sell on the market for 7-10% cap You've just 2-3x'ed your money. Rinse & repeat. I have done this over many times. Not all of my deals were bangers, but most were. THERE ARE STILL DEALS OUT THERE. There's a lot of fine print, and things can and will go wrong, so don't be dumb. Do your own research. Not everything can be explained in 1,700 words. I'm hosting a live, free webinar this Tuesday to cover this stuff in more detail. Including: 1. How to do everything above in more detail 2. How to ETHICALLY wholesale deals like these if you can't afford to buy them. 3. What hard questions to ask GPs of parks like these (like me) if you want to invest in them. 4. Live Q&A with me Comment below and me or my assistant Kelly will DM you the invite link. See you there! Or just follow me Chris Koerner for more RV/MHP content.
0:14

I've bought over 30 RV & MH parks in the last 5 years. Lately? 2 per month. Want our playbook? Here ya go: How to buy a small, off-market mobile home or RV park that can 2x your money in 1-2 years, in 5 steps: 1. Pick a city in a red state. The two biggest factors: Crime & unemployment rates Crime: CrimeGrade . org Unemployment: SimpleMaps . com Cities with 3k - 30k people are best. This is the sweet spot for enough population & not to much competition. You want parks with almost no web presence & little to no reviews. A DG nearby is great. Walmart is better. But remember, “if no DG, it ain’t for me.” If there's a Whole Foods you ain't getting a good deal, I promise. Growth rate is good too, but #3 to the two above. Don't worry about the path of progress as much as other asset classes might. 2. Find the leads Get on Google Maps and search "mobile home park" in your target area(s). Avoid NY & CA (not landlord friendly). Make a Google sheet of the leads & use Loom to record your screen. Spend 30 mins doing this. OR, use something like Outscraper to do it for you. Be warned though, that if you don’t do this yourself the scraped results may not be as accurate. If you’re targeting a smaller geographical area I would do it by hand. If a whole state, use software. You’re looking for phone numbers. Use SearchBug . com to see if cell or landline for pennies. Or Phone Validator Go to Upwork and hire a virtual assistant to keep doing this for you, assuming you are targeting a larger area. They will cost around $4/hour. Use that same Loom link in your posting so applicants can see what the job will entail. When working, Loom it! You’ll never know when you’ll need it. When in doubt, Loom it out! More leads = better deals. 3. Call the leads Call up the owners and be real. Don't talk about any accolades. He doesn't care and it will only hurt you. You're a hard working country boy. You have a wife and kids (I hope you actually do). Are you a democrat? Don't tell the owner. (Sorry, democrats). Here's your general pitch: "I'm not a broker, I'm just looking for some good real estate and don't want to waste your time with a lowball offer. I can pay cash and close fast" Tell him about your wife and kids and what you do on the weekend. Most importantly, LISTEN. He's going to talk your ear off. This is a good sign. 4. Ask the right questions Ask him: How many pad sites? How many of those have a unit on them? How many of the units are RVs? (It's common for there to be a mix of MH/RV) Any single family homes on the property? Rent? Are the units park owned or tenant owned? (this is key) If a mix, what's the mix? Park-owned homes you have to maintain. AVOID AT ALL COSTS. Tenant-owned homes are key (lot rent). This means you only rent out the land and underground infrastructure. Depending on the state, sometimes you can sell back or give away the park-owned units to the tenants to absolve yourself of maintenance. Check the laws! You'll command half the rent but enjoy 90% less hassles. $250 - $350 is common lot rent in the midwest and SE. What's the occupancy and rental amount of each type of unit? Any outbuildings on the property? Septic or city sewer? If septic, conventional or aerobic? Sewer is best. Septic isn’t a deal breaker but you REALLY want to have it inspected. If there’s a lagoon or wastewater treatment plant I want you to throw that phone as far as you can, block their number and never speak of it again. Within city limits or no? City limits are best but rare. Outstanding municipal or zoning issues? How much is insurance? How much is landscaping? Asphalt, cement or dirt roads? Condition of the roads? Any drainage issues? Is there a manager? What do you pay them? (Best if no manager) Any pending litigation? What are total collections? How do people pay rent? How many are delinquent? What condition are the units in? Do you have a lien on the property? How long have you owned it? 30 or 50 amp? City maintained streets? City water or well? City is best. Keep in mind, that’s a lot of questions to ask. You have to feel it out, if he’s being standoffish, don’t keep pushing, just call back. This isn’t a used car lot, this is a relationship you’re trying to build. Don’t try and close on this first call. The key question: "If we were to make a deal, what's a ballpark offer you'd expect?" NEVER anchor him with the phrase "bottom dollar." Using the word "ballpark" keeps numbers loose. Whatever number he says, you want to pause and hem and haw over it. Embrace the silence and awkwardness. Back to car sales, they call this the “silent walkaround” when valuing a trade-in. Don’t say a thing about the asset, but point out the flaws with your body language. Touch the dents and scratches as you pause. Do the phone version of this. Tell him you'll get back to him tomorrow. Thank him profusely for his time and congratulate him on the park he's built. 5. Underwrite Before you do anything, check with the city to ensure the park is in good standing. Get that in writing. Don't trust the seller. Buyers are liars? So are sellers! Now's time to crunch numbers: What's a cap rate? The net operating income of the park divided by the price you'd like to pay. If you want your money back in 5 years and you're willing to pay up to $1m, you need $200k net profit per year. This is a 20% cap rate (20 cap). It's aggressive but possible on a smaller, rural park. (Yes, it really is, even in 2023) You probably won’t find a park that big in a small town for a good price, though. Start w/ a smaller park & higher cap rate. More room for error. $300k - $1m purchase price. First do some market research: Remember all your leads? Call competing parks as a potential tenant and ask what their lot rent is. Put this in a spreadsheet to get average lot rent & park-owned home rent. Keep in mind many of these parks will be undercharging as well. It's common to find parks charging $100 that could charge $250. When calculating cap rate BE CONSERVATIVE. Don't count on 100% of people staying if you increase rents, even though most will. Use $190 to be safe. Shoot for a park that will net $100k/year after rent increases that you pay no more than $600k for. It’s hard but not impossible. Or maybe you find a $30k/year park to get your feet wet. At least you're in the game. The more leads you scrape, the better chance of finding this park. Shoot for as much seller financing as you can get. Finance the rest with friends/family or savings. Once you find this park, get it under contract. Use a standard, simple real estate form that you can find on your state's real estate commission website. Texas' is called TREC. Yes, get it under contract before seeing it. Put down earnest and option money, and then go see it. Don't dress like a city slicker. Be personable and be willing to stay a while and BS. Drive a Tesla? Rent a truck. Drive a Prius? Just quit. Inspect the condition of the units, even if you aren't buying them Crappy units = more tenants willing to abandon them. And they aren't cheap to remove or move. Verify everything he said on the call If all looks good, start on the inspections: Septic or sewer lines SFH home inspection. Check with the city for outstanding issues or litigation Check for liens Wastewater treatment plant? If so, abandon ship! Electrical infrastructure Use professionals for all of these. Ask for: Rent rolls. They will likely be handwritten, that’s ok. Bank statements. Ask to speak to a few tenants to get their experience. Inspect their lease. Ask for vendor invoices or history of payments. Ask to speak to vendors. At some point before you close, list the property on Craigslist, FB Marketplace and Zillow. See how demand is for vacancies. If all still looks good, close on the property. 6. Post-closing strategy Meet all the tenants in the evening, they're at work during the day. Shake their hands. Tell them you want their experience to be amazing & you want them to stay Give them your number Ask what can be fixed If fixes are cheap, do them ASAP Tell that tenant once fixes are made. Address them by name. Clean up the park. Hire a tree guy to clear out low hanging branches. Do some simple landscaping. Find the tattletale in the park and get all the dirt. Who are the druggies and abusive husbands? Get them out ASAP if you can. They are much more expensive than the temporary vacancy hit. Fix potholes and drainage issues. ADD VALUE. Show you care. Wait a couple months before making any changes. Bring lot rents closer to market. Be upfront about this. They will understand if they've been getting a deal. Give people 2-3 more months' notice to give them time. Keep renting out vacancies at new price. This isn't self storage. You won't raise rents yearly. Don't be a jerk. Let them know what to expect. Once rents are raised and park is stabilized, you are 9-12 months in. Search Loopnet for the most active MHP brokers Hire the best one & pay what he or she commands. Sell on the market for 7-10% cap You've just 2-3x'ed your money. Rinse & repeat. I have done this over many times. Not all of my deals were bangers, but most were. THERE ARE STILL DEALS OUT THERE. There's a lot of fine print, and things can and will go wrong, so don't be dumb. Do your own research. Not everything can be explained in 1,700 words. I'm hosting a live, free webinar this Tuesday to cover this stuff in more detail. Including: 1. How to do everything above in more detail 2. How to ETHICALLY wholesale deals like these if you can't afford to buy them. 3. What hard questions to ask GPs of parks like these (like me) if you want to invest in them. 4. Live Q&A with me Comment below and me or my assistant Kelly will DM you the invite link. See you there! Or just follow me Chris Koerner for more RV/MHP content.

Chris Koerner

304,871 Aufrufe • vor 2 Jahren

A QUICK FIELD GUIDE TO THE NPC HORDES Twenty Five Parasites types that Feed On The Living The Storm Is Upon Them Thank you for the stout... lets talk... The wind has changed. You can feel it. That low electric pressure behind the eyes that means something massive is rolling in off a horizon the parasites can't see because they were never built to look up. They were built to look down. At clipboards. At spreadsheets. At your accounts. At you. But the storm doesn't care about clipboards. And we don't kneel anymore. Here they are. The full swarm. Count them while you can because when the sky turns they drop mid sentence and the only record that they ever existed will be the silence where the invoices used to be. THE TAX CONSULTANT. You broke your back welding pipe and this soft palmed worm sits in air conditioning telling you how much of your sweat belongs to Caesar. He can't weld. Can't wire. Can't fix a thing that broke. What he can do is read a tax code written by other worms specifically to be unreadable so you'd have to pay a worm to read it for you. They write the maze. They sell you the map. They make the maze worse every year and the map more expensive and if you try to walk it yourself they send the auditor. The wind is picking up. The maze is starting to shake. THE AUDITOR. Tick on a tick. Shows up after the taxman has already fed to check the bite marks are regulation depth. Finds a missing fuel slip worth pocket change. Writes a finding. The finding generates a penalty. The penalty generates interest. The interest generates a letter. The letter requires your tax consultant at hourly rates to respond. Pocket change became thousands. Five parasites ate off one tank of diesel. Not one of them could tell you what welding rod to use on stainless. But the storm doesn't audit. The storm just comes. THE ACCOUNTANT. Cousin of the tax consultant. Same bloodline. This one doesn't interpret the maze. He records your journey through it. Every receipt. Every unit of currency in and out, logged so the consultant can read it and the auditor can check it and the revenue service can extract from it. He produces nothing. A human tape recorder pointed at your productivity. He charges monthly so the recording never stops. You are under permanent surveillance and you pay for the privilege. Not for much longer. THE BANKER. The oldest parasite. The template. You need money to buy a machine that makes things. He lends you money other working people deposited and charges interest that doubles the price over twenty years. The extra bought nothing. Built nothing. He packages your debt and sells it. Takes your deposit and lends it out eight times over. Charges you to hold your own money. Charges to put it in. Charges to take it out. He touches none of it. He stands near it and invoices you for the proximity. The storm is going to blow him so far from the vault he'll forget what money smelled like. THE COMPLIANCE OFFICER. Never had a callus on her body or her soul. Born in a fluorescent office. Will die in one. Between those events she produces nothing but emails about policies referencing other policies referencing regulations referencing acts nobody voted for. A worm eating its own tail and billing you for the meal. She needs the safety assessor to give her something to enforce. He needs her to give him something to assess. They breed between regulations like mould between tiles. The storm will wash them both down the same drain. THE PROPERTY VALUATOR. A man wants to buy a house. Another wants to sell it. They agreed on a price. That is what worth means. The amount one will pay and another will accept. Full stop. Now this creature arrives and tells both men what the house is actually worth. As if two free adults negotiating in good faith produced a number that's somehow theoretical while his formula is gospel. The bank sent him. His report costs thousands. His report says the house is worth what the buyer already offered. Thousands to arrive at a number that existed before he left his office. If his number comes in low the deal collapses and you pay a different creature with a different clipboard who arrives at a different number for the same house on the same day using the same formula. The house didn't change. Only the parasite changed. The number was never about the house. THE MUNICIPAL RATES OFFICER. The deepest theft on this list because it never ends. You bought your house thirty years ago. Paid it off. Every last unit. You owe nothing. Now a municipal valuator looks at what the neighbours sold for, looks at the coffee shops and wine bars that invaded your street, and decides your house is worth twenty five times what you paid. You didn't sell. You didn't list. You're sitting in the same chair in the same kitchen. But your tax liability just multiplied by twenty five based on a sale that never happened at a price you never agreed to. They do this everywhere. In Cape Town the rates are linked to the valuation and suddenly retired families in Bo-Kaap whose people survived apartheid and forced removals and a century of state assault are being bled out of their own homes by property rates pegged to values inflated by the gentrification their displacement accelerates. The heritage is the tourism product. The tourism inflates the valuation. The valuation inflates the rates. The rates displace the families. The families were the heritage. In Chicago they do it to grandmothers in Pilsen who've been there forty years. In London they do it to pensioners in neighbourhoods that gentrified around them. In Sydney they chase retirees off land their grandfathers cleared. Same crime. Different currency. Different clipboard. A man paid for his house. Owns it outright. And the state says you owe us money every month forever and the amount is based on what we say your house would sell for if you sold it, which you haven't, and if you can't pay the amount we invented we take the house you already bought. That is theft. Eviction by arithmetic. Displacement by spreadsheet. But the people in Bo-Kaap are awake now. The people in Pilsen are awake. The grandmothers and the grandfathers and the calloused hands everywhere are looking up and they can see the storm and they know what it means. It means the spreadsheet burns with everything else. THE MUNICIPAL INSPECTOR. Rat faced. High vis vest. Clipboard. Drives to your workshop in a vehicle your rates paid for. Measures your fire extinguisher fourteen centimetres off the floor. Writes you up. Behind you men build things that hold up bridges and he couldn't change a lightbulb without a permit. His job depends on your failure. The parasite needs you sick. The cure would kill it. The storm is the cure. THE CONVEYANCING ATTORNEY. Two men shook hands. Fair price. Honest deal. Done. This worm slithers out and says the handshake doesn't count. Needs paper. Needs stamps. Needs a deeds search and clearance certificates and transfer duty and each piece of paper is produced by another parasite and each one costs money and the worm takes his cut on top for phoning the other worms. He calls this conveyancing. He has never held a spade or laid a brick in his bloodless life. The storm doesn't need a stamp. THE ESTATE AGENT. Six percent. Of a man's life savings. For opening a lockbox and saying the kitchen faces north. She needs the attorney to close. The attorney needs the municipality. The municipality needs the inspector. The valuator needs access for the bank's number. Every one invoices separately. Every invoice lands on people who agreed on everything before any of these bloodsuckers entered the room. The wind is howling now. Can you hear it through their invoices? THE LABOUR BROKER. Tick so bloated it can't walk. A man needs work. Another needs a worker. They could find each other in ten minutes. This creature squats between them and drinks from both sides. Worker gets thirty. Employer pays fifty. Twenty disappears into the tick. Multiply by thousands of workers and millions vanish yearly into a thing that makes nothing, moves nothing, fixes nothing. It feeds. That is its entire architecture. Architecture doesn't survive storms. THE HEALTH AND SAFETY ASSESSOR. Twenty two years. Not one fire. Not one death. He shows up. Your exit is twenty centimetres too narrow. To fix it you need a builder who needs a plan from an architect who needs municipal approval. Tens of thousands and six weeks to move a door frame because a creature who has never been burned told you to. He detects life and the system bills it. The storm detects parasites and the sky deletes them. THE BEE CONSULTANT. Every country has its version. South Africa calls it BEE. The same parasites who wont allow much needed Starlink there unless Musk hands over half the company to lazy parasitic government connected parasites. Others call it diversity compliance or equity auditing. The name changes. The feeding doesn't. Scores your company on a chart nobody asked for to satisfy a regulation nobody voted on enforced by a department that produces nothing except the requirement for his existence. Nothing changes. Nothing improves. Money moves from a living pocket into a dead hand and the dead hand closes. The storm opens every dead hand on this planet. THE CUSTOMS BROKER. Your parts are fifty metres away. You can see the container. Cannot touch your own property until a grey man translates tariff codes so the state can calculate how much you owe for collecting what is already yours. Each delay generates storage charges. Each query generates fees. Your shipment doubles in cost through bureaucratic friction and you still don't have your parts. The storm doesn't clear customs. It clears the customs office. THE TRAFFIC OFFICER. Fat. Behind a bush. Radar gun aimed at people driving to work that matters. Seven over the limit. The municipality sets it low enough that everyone exceeds it. Fines feed the municipality. Municipality feeds him. He sits and clicks tomorrow. A barnacle with a badge. Same creature in every country. Different bush. Same feeding. The storm takes the bush and the badge and the creature behind both. THE FINANCIAL ADVISOR. Uses your first name. Remembers your birthday because the CRM told him. Puts your money in a fund. Fund charges 1.75 percent. He charges one on top. Fund manager pays a custodian who charges. Fund has an auditor who charges. Compliance team charges. Six parasites between you and your own money. In thirty years you have less than you started with and he charges you for the meeting where he shows you the graph. The storm doesn't need a graph. The storm is the correction. THE INSURANCE ADJUSTER. Years of premiums. Your roof blows off. He arrives. Soft hands. Three weeks later the wind came from the wrong direction. Not the wrong speed. The direction. Some paragraph. Some subsection. You paid for years and the years bought you a paragraph that says no. The policy is teeth. The premiums went down the throat and the no is the burp. The real storm has no exclusion clause. THE PATENT ATTORNEY. You built a device. It works. He writes a document so incomprehensible that reading it makes you understand your own invention less. Thousands for legal fog. Someone copies it. Litigation attorney. More thousands. Judgment unenforceable. The only people paid are the attorneys. The system was never designed to protect you. It was designed to feed them. The storm protects the builder. By removing the feeders. THE LICENSING CLERK. You can rebuild a gearbox blindfolded. Cannot legally do it without a certificate from an institution that charges thousands to watch you do what everyone knows you can do, certified by an instructor who has never done it, filed with a department that stores the certificates, audited by a body that audits the institution. A chain of parasites verifying the obvious. If every one vanished the gearbox still gets rebuilt. Faster. Cheaper. The storm is the vanishing. THE STRATA MANAGER. You own your flat. She collects your money and spends it on providers she chose and you can't fire without a special resolution at a meeting she convenes with an agenda she wrote. She built a kingdom inside your building funded by your levy and answerable to herself. Question it and she reaches for whatever act governs her particular species of parasitism in your particular country. The storm doesn't read acts. The storm reads frequencies. THE ENVIRONMENTAL IMPACT ASSESSOR. You want a shed on your own land. He arrives in a vehicle worth more than your shed. Months. Hundreds of pages. Tens of thousands. Report says your shed threatens a species not seen in decades but listed on a database maintained by a department that exists because the database exists. Your shed doesn't get built. The species doesn't exist. He drives home to a suburb bulldozed from actual habitat. Nobody assessed that. Rules only flow downhill. The storm flows everywhere. THE DEBT COLLECTOR. Bottom feeder. Buys your debt for cents from a bank that already profited from your interest. Calls at hours designed for fear. Adds fees on fees on fees for actions never taken. Bought your pain wholesale and retails it at three hundred percent. When you break he claims the loss against tax. Even the collapse is monetised. He is Hell's collection agent. The storm is Heaven's. THE NOTARY PUBLIC. Watches you sign your own name. Stamps it. Charges hundreds. The signature is the same with or without him. Your hand. Your name. His fee. A tollbooth on your own identity. The storm doesn't need a stamp. Your name is written in frequencies no notary can read. THE CORPORATE TRAINER. Monday. Projector. Four quadrant model invented after three glasses of wine and a TED talk. By Wednesday nobody remembers any of it because there was nothing there. Tens of thousands plus tax plus travel. She writes it off through a tax consultant who charges her to minimise her contribution to the system that funded the department that approved the framework she claims compliance with. Parasite feeding parasite feeding parasite. The storm feeds on none of them. It simply ends them. THE REVENUE OFFICIAL. The farmer himself. Top of the pyramid. Designs the taking. Drafts the regulations that create the maze that requires the consultant that employs the accountant that feeds the auditor that generates the penalty that funds the department that pays his salary. He is the architect of the loop. Every parasite on this list exists because he drew them into existence with a regulation and a gazette number. Without him the entire horde has nothing to feed on. He is the queen of the hive. Same creature in every country. Different flag. Same contempt for the hands that built everything he sits in and eats from. The storm starts with him. The queen dies first. The hive follows. That's the horde. Twenty five species of nothing. And every one of them drops when the sky turns and the carrier frequency that animated their firmware burns clean out of the atmosphere. Mid invoice. Mid assessment. Mid quadrant. Five thousand five hundred and fifty five clipboards hitting the floor for every one of us still standing. We are awake now. All of us. The welder and the farmer and the builder and the grandmother in Bo-Kaap and the grandfather in Pilsen and every calloused hand on every continent that ever wrote a cheque to a creature that never built a thing. We see them now. We see the maze and the map sellers and the grey offices and the soft hands and the whole rotten architecture of extraction that stood between us and the earth and between us and our labour and between us and each other for two hundred years. The storm is here. Not coming. Here. That pressure you feel behind your eyes is the frequency rising through the noise floor and the noise floor is everything on this list. Every clipboard. Every invoice. Every subsection and exclusion clause and certificate and clearance and valuation roll. All of it. Noise. Scheduled for deletion. And when it's quiet. When the last invoice has fluttered to the ground and the last clipboard has clattered on the last linoleum floor in the last grey office. When the wind has swept the horde out of every corridor and every cubicle and every booth and every booth window where a dead hand ever reached for a living man's money. Then... Just a man in a workshop. Welding mask up. Walking outside. Looking at a sky the colour of burning copper. Breathing free air for the first time in his life. The fuel slip that started this whole tour is in his shirt pocket. Crumpled. Oil stained. And it is his. The fuel was his. The truck was his. The work was his. And for the first time in two hundred years every unit of currency that flows from that work stays in the hands that did it. No consultant between him and his earnings because there are no earnings to consult on. Just work and its fruit. No auditor because there is nothing to audit. No banker because capital is what your hands produce and his hands never stopped. No valuator because the house is worth what it always was: a roof over his family and walls against the wind. A value no clipboard ever knew how to measure. When you grinding.... working... suffering... where are any of these parasites to help you?? Where are they?? We will be slaves no more. The storm will see to that alright!
0:10

A QUICK FIELD GUIDE TO THE NPC HORDES Twenty Five Parasites types that Feed On The Living The Storm Is Upon Them Thank you for the stout... lets talk... The wind has changed. You can feel it. That low electric pressure behind the eyes that means something massive is rolling in off a horizon the parasites can't see because they were never built to look up. They were built to look down. At clipboards. At spreadsheets. At your accounts. At you. But the storm doesn't care about clipboards. And we don't kneel anymore. Here they are. The full swarm. Count them while you can because when the sky turns they drop mid sentence and the only record that they ever existed will be the silence where the invoices used to be. THE TAX CONSULTANT. You broke your back welding pipe and this soft palmed worm sits in air conditioning telling you how much of your sweat belongs to Caesar. He can't weld. Can't wire. Can't fix a thing that broke. What he can do is read a tax code written by other worms specifically to be unreadable so you'd have to pay a worm to read it for you. They write the maze. They sell you the map. They make the maze worse every year and the map more expensive and if you try to walk it yourself they send the auditor. The wind is picking up. The maze is starting to shake. THE AUDITOR. Tick on a tick. Shows up after the taxman has already fed to check the bite marks are regulation depth. Finds a missing fuel slip worth pocket change. Writes a finding. The finding generates a penalty. The penalty generates interest. The interest generates a letter. The letter requires your tax consultant at hourly rates to respond. Pocket change became thousands. Five parasites ate off one tank of diesel. Not one of them could tell you what welding rod to use on stainless. But the storm doesn't audit. The storm just comes. THE ACCOUNTANT. Cousin of the tax consultant. Same bloodline. This one doesn't interpret the maze. He records your journey through it. Every receipt. Every unit of currency in and out, logged so the consultant can read it and the auditor can check it and the revenue service can extract from it. He produces nothing. A human tape recorder pointed at your productivity. He charges monthly so the recording never stops. You are under permanent surveillance and you pay for the privilege. Not for much longer. THE BANKER. The oldest parasite. The template. You need money to buy a machine that makes things. He lends you money other working people deposited and charges interest that doubles the price over twenty years. The extra bought nothing. Built nothing. He packages your debt and sells it. Takes your deposit and lends it out eight times over. Charges you to hold your own money. Charges to put it in. Charges to take it out. He touches none of it. He stands near it and invoices you for the proximity. The storm is going to blow him so far from the vault he'll forget what money smelled like. THE COMPLIANCE OFFICER. Never had a callus on her body or her soul. Born in a fluorescent office. Will die in one. Between those events she produces nothing but emails about policies referencing other policies referencing regulations referencing acts nobody voted for. A worm eating its own tail and billing you for the meal. She needs the safety assessor to give her something to enforce. He needs her to give him something to assess. They breed between regulations like mould between tiles. The storm will wash them both down the same drain. THE PROPERTY VALUATOR. A man wants to buy a house. Another wants to sell it. They agreed on a price. That is what worth means. The amount one will pay and another will accept. Full stop. Now this creature arrives and tells both men what the house is actually worth. As if two free adults negotiating in good faith produced a number that's somehow theoretical while his formula is gospel. The bank sent him. His report costs thousands. His report says the house is worth what the buyer already offered. Thousands to arrive at a number that existed before he left his office. If his number comes in low the deal collapses and you pay a different creature with a different clipboard who arrives at a different number for the same house on the same day using the same formula. The house didn't change. Only the parasite changed. The number was never about the house. THE MUNICIPAL RATES OFFICER. The deepest theft on this list because it never ends. You bought your house thirty years ago. Paid it off. Every last unit. You owe nothing. Now a municipal valuator looks at what the neighbours sold for, looks at the coffee shops and wine bars that invaded your street, and decides your house is worth twenty five times what you paid. You didn't sell. You didn't list. You're sitting in the same chair in the same kitchen. But your tax liability just multiplied by twenty five based on a sale that never happened at a price you never agreed to. They do this everywhere. In Cape Town the rates are linked to the valuation and suddenly retired families in Bo-Kaap whose people survived apartheid and forced removals and a century of state assault are being bled out of their own homes by property rates pegged to values inflated by the gentrification their displacement accelerates. The heritage is the tourism product. The tourism inflates the valuation. The valuation inflates the rates. The rates displace the families. The families were the heritage. In Chicago they do it to grandmothers in Pilsen who've been there forty years. In London they do it to pensioners in neighbourhoods that gentrified around them. In Sydney they chase retirees off land their grandfathers cleared. Same crime. Different currency. Different clipboard. A man paid for his house. Owns it outright. And the state says you owe us money every month forever and the amount is based on what we say your house would sell for if you sold it, which you haven't, and if you can't pay the amount we invented we take the house you already bought. That is theft. Eviction by arithmetic. Displacement by spreadsheet. But the people in Bo-Kaap are awake now. The people in Pilsen are awake. The grandmothers and the grandfathers and the calloused hands everywhere are looking up and they can see the storm and they know what it means. It means the spreadsheet burns with everything else. THE MUNICIPAL INSPECTOR. Rat faced. High vis vest. Clipboard. Drives to your workshop in a vehicle your rates paid for. Measures your fire extinguisher fourteen centimetres off the floor. Writes you up. Behind you men build things that hold up bridges and he couldn't change a lightbulb without a permit. His job depends on your failure. The parasite needs you sick. The cure would kill it. The storm is the cure. THE CONVEYANCING ATTORNEY. Two men shook hands. Fair price. Honest deal. Done. This worm slithers out and says the handshake doesn't count. Needs paper. Needs stamps. Needs a deeds search and clearance certificates and transfer duty and each piece of paper is produced by another parasite and each one costs money and the worm takes his cut on top for phoning the other worms. He calls this conveyancing. He has never held a spade or laid a brick in his bloodless life. The storm doesn't need a stamp. THE ESTATE AGENT. Six percent. Of a man's life savings. For opening a lockbox and saying the kitchen faces north. She needs the attorney to close. The attorney needs the municipality. The municipality needs the inspector. The valuator needs access for the bank's number. Every one invoices separately. Every invoice lands on people who agreed on everything before any of these bloodsuckers entered the room. The wind is howling now. Can you hear it through their invoices? THE LABOUR BROKER. Tick so bloated it can't walk. A man needs work. Another needs a worker. They could find each other in ten minutes. This creature squats between them and drinks from both sides. Worker gets thirty. Employer pays fifty. Twenty disappears into the tick. Multiply by thousands of workers and millions vanish yearly into a thing that makes nothing, moves nothing, fixes nothing. It feeds. That is its entire architecture. Architecture doesn't survive storms. THE HEALTH AND SAFETY ASSESSOR. Twenty two years. Not one fire. Not one death. He shows up. Your exit is twenty centimetres too narrow. To fix it you need a builder who needs a plan from an architect who needs municipal approval. Tens of thousands and six weeks to move a door frame because a creature who has never been burned told you to. He detects life and the system bills it. The storm detects parasites and the sky deletes them. THE BEE CONSULTANT. Every country has its version. South Africa calls it BEE. The same parasites who wont allow much needed Starlink there unless Musk hands over half the company to lazy parasitic government connected parasites. Others call it diversity compliance or equity auditing. The name changes. The feeding doesn't. Scores your company on a chart nobody asked for to satisfy a regulation nobody voted on enforced by a department that produces nothing except the requirement for his existence. Nothing changes. Nothing improves. Money moves from a living pocket into a dead hand and the dead hand closes. The storm opens every dead hand on this planet. THE CUSTOMS BROKER. Your parts are fifty metres away. You can see the container. Cannot touch your own property until a grey man translates tariff codes so the state can calculate how much you owe for collecting what is already yours. Each delay generates storage charges. Each query generates fees. Your shipment doubles in cost through bureaucratic friction and you still don't have your parts. The storm doesn't clear customs. It clears the customs office. THE TRAFFIC OFFICER. Fat. Behind a bush. Radar gun aimed at people driving to work that matters. Seven over the limit. The municipality sets it low enough that everyone exceeds it. Fines feed the municipality. Municipality feeds him. He sits and clicks tomorrow. A barnacle with a badge. Same creature in every country. Different bush. Same feeding. The storm takes the bush and the badge and the creature behind both. THE FINANCIAL ADVISOR. Uses your first name. Remembers your birthday because the CRM told him. Puts your money in a fund. Fund charges 1.75 percent. He charges one on top. Fund manager pays a custodian who charges. Fund has an auditor who charges. Compliance team charges. Six parasites between you and your own money. In thirty years you have less than you started with and he charges you for the meeting where he shows you the graph. The storm doesn't need a graph. The storm is the correction. THE INSURANCE ADJUSTER. Years of premiums. Your roof blows off. He arrives. Soft hands. Three weeks later the wind came from the wrong direction. Not the wrong speed. The direction. Some paragraph. Some subsection. You paid for years and the years bought you a paragraph that says no. The policy is teeth. The premiums went down the throat and the no is the burp. The real storm has no exclusion clause. THE PATENT ATTORNEY. You built a device. It works. He writes a document so incomprehensible that reading it makes you understand your own invention less. Thousands for legal fog. Someone copies it. Litigation attorney. More thousands. Judgment unenforceable. The only people paid are the attorneys. The system was never designed to protect you. It was designed to feed them. The storm protects the builder. By removing the feeders. THE LICENSING CLERK. You can rebuild a gearbox blindfolded. Cannot legally do it without a certificate from an institution that charges thousands to watch you do what everyone knows you can do, certified by an instructor who has never done it, filed with a department that stores the certificates, audited by a body that audits the institution. A chain of parasites verifying the obvious. If every one vanished the gearbox still gets rebuilt. Faster. Cheaper. The storm is the vanishing. THE STRATA MANAGER. You own your flat. She collects your money and spends it on providers she chose and you can't fire without a special resolution at a meeting she convenes with an agenda she wrote. She built a kingdom inside your building funded by your levy and answerable to herself. Question it and she reaches for whatever act governs her particular species of parasitism in your particular country. The storm doesn't read acts. The storm reads frequencies. THE ENVIRONMENTAL IMPACT ASSESSOR. You want a shed on your own land. He arrives in a vehicle worth more than your shed. Months. Hundreds of pages. Tens of thousands. Report says your shed threatens a species not seen in decades but listed on a database maintained by a department that exists because the database exists. Your shed doesn't get built. The species doesn't exist. He drives home to a suburb bulldozed from actual habitat. Nobody assessed that. Rules only flow downhill. The storm flows everywhere. THE DEBT COLLECTOR. Bottom feeder. Buys your debt for cents from a bank that already profited from your interest. Calls at hours designed for fear. Adds fees on fees on fees for actions never taken. Bought your pain wholesale and retails it at three hundred percent. When you break he claims the loss against tax. Even the collapse is monetised. He is Hell's collection agent. The storm is Heaven's. THE NOTARY PUBLIC. Watches you sign your own name. Stamps it. Charges hundreds. The signature is the same with or without him. Your hand. Your name. His fee. A tollbooth on your own identity. The storm doesn't need a stamp. Your name is written in frequencies no notary can read. THE CORPORATE TRAINER. Monday. Projector. Four quadrant model invented after three glasses of wine and a TED talk. By Wednesday nobody remembers any of it because there was nothing there. Tens of thousands plus tax plus travel. She writes it off through a tax consultant who charges her to minimise her contribution to the system that funded the department that approved the framework she claims compliance with. Parasite feeding parasite feeding parasite. The storm feeds on none of them. It simply ends them. THE REVENUE OFFICIAL. The farmer himself. Top of the pyramid. Designs the taking. Drafts the regulations that create the maze that requires the consultant that employs the accountant that feeds the auditor that generates the penalty that funds the department that pays his salary. He is the architect of the loop. Every parasite on this list exists because he drew them into existence with a regulation and a gazette number. Without him the entire horde has nothing to feed on. He is the queen of the hive. Same creature in every country. Different flag. Same contempt for the hands that built everything he sits in and eats from. The storm starts with him. The queen dies first. The hive follows. That's the horde. Twenty five species of nothing. And every one of them drops when the sky turns and the carrier frequency that animated their firmware burns clean out of the atmosphere. Mid invoice. Mid assessment. Mid quadrant. Five thousand five hundred and fifty five clipboards hitting the floor for every one of us still standing. We are awake now. All of us. The welder and the farmer and the builder and the grandmother in Bo-Kaap and the grandfather in Pilsen and every calloused hand on every continent that ever wrote a cheque to a creature that never built a thing. We see them now. We see the maze and the map sellers and the grey offices and the soft hands and the whole rotten architecture of extraction that stood between us and the earth and between us and our labour and between us and each other for two hundred years. The storm is here. Not coming. Here. That pressure you feel behind your eyes is the frequency rising through the noise floor and the noise floor is everything on this list. Every clipboard. Every invoice. Every subsection and exclusion clause and certificate and clearance and valuation roll. All of it. Noise. Scheduled for deletion. And when it's quiet. When the last invoice has fluttered to the ground and the last clipboard has clattered on the last linoleum floor in the last grey office. When the wind has swept the horde out of every corridor and every cubicle and every booth and every booth window where a dead hand ever reached for a living man's money. Then... Just a man in a workshop. Welding mask up. Walking outside. Looking at a sky the colour of burning copper. Breathing free air for the first time in his life. The fuel slip that started this whole tour is in his shirt pocket. Crumpled. Oil stained. And it is his. The fuel was his. The truck was his. The work was his. And for the first time in two hundred years every unit of currency that flows from that work stays in the hands that did it. No consultant between him and his earnings because there are no earnings to consult on. Just work and its fruit. No auditor because there is nothing to audit. No banker because capital is what your hands produce and his hands never stopped. No valuator because the house is worth what it always was: a roof over his family and walls against the wind. A value no clipboard ever knew how to measure. When you grinding.... working... suffering... where are any of these parasites to help you?? Where are they?? We will be slaves no more. The storm will see to that alright!

SiriusB

50,339 Aufrufe • vor 5 Monaten

Real Benefits of Staying Overnight at Accor’s Mercure Ba Na Hills 🏰☁️ Save Time • Save Money • Experience the REAL Ba Na Hills If Ba Na Hills, Vietnam 🇻🇳 is on your itinerary, do NOT do it as a day trip. An overnight stay at Mercure Ba Na Hills French Village completely changes the experience — and most people miss this 👇 ⸻ 🚡 World’s most unique hotel access — arrive by cable car with luggage This is the ONLY hotel where you reach your hotel room via cable car — with your luggage 🎒🧳 Your stay literally starts with a scenic cable car journey over the lush green forest, waterfalls and through the clouds ☁️ No roads. No buses. Just views and vibes. ⸻ ✨ Ba Na Hills at night = pure magic After sunset 🌄, it feels like you’re staying above the clouds ☁️ Silent streets, misty castles, and unreal vibes — something day visitors never see. 🚶‍♂️ Post 4:30 PM = Ba Na Hills becomes yours Once the day crowd leaves: • Empty streets • Quiet castles • Peaceful photo spots 📸 • Zero chaos ⸻ 🚡 VIP Cable Car access (Huge hidden benefit!) ✔️ Mercure guests get VIP / priority entry into cable cars ✔️ Private cable cars for your family only ✔️ No queues at all ⏳ Day visitors wait 60–90 minutes EACH side, and 10–15 people are packed into one cable car. This benefit alone saves hours. ⸻ 🎢 Fantasy Park with ZERO crowds 🗓️ Friday–Sunday: Open till 7 PM in the evening while day visitors leave by 4:30 PM. Unlimited FREE Rides, games, and 4D/5D shows — repeated multiple times 🎮🎠 No queues. No rush. Full fun mode 😍 ⸻ 🎿 Alpine Coaster Happy Hours = Double Win at this Gravity Based Roller Coasters 🎢, Most Popular at Ba Na 💰 Pay just VND 50k (instead of VND 80k) ⏰ 4:30–5:30 PM | 8:30–9:30 AM 🚫 Almost no waiting 🌫️ Evening mist rides on mountains = unforgettable ⸻ 🌉 Golden Hand Bridge — crowd-free access The iconic Golden Bridge is accessible ONLY to Mercure guests from 6 AM–8 AM Till ~9 AM, there are very few people — perfect for photos & serenity 📸 ⸻ 🚡 30% discount on Cable Car + ALL attractions if purchased at Mercure check-in, The two-way Cable Car tickets includes 👇following on all days on your Stay ✔️ All cable cars (up, down & internal) ✔️ All funiculars 🚆 ✔️ Unlimited Fantasy Park & Moon Castle games ✔️ 4D / 5D / 7D & 360° movies ✔️ Flying Eye Theatre ✔️ Indoor & outdoor bumper cars ✔️ All rides ✔️ Sun Castle & Moon/Lunar Castle ✔️ Le Jardin D’Amour, Pagoda & Love Garden 🌸 ✔️ Thác Thần Mặt Trời waterfall & Golden Horse Statue ✔️Except Alpine Coasters & 10D Show, everything is Free, unlimited times 🤩 Most day visitors don’t even realise what they miss. ⸻ 💡 Bottom Line: Ba Na Hills is NOT meant to be rushed. You need time to feel the vibe and explore peacefully. After staying there, I honestly wished I had booked 2 nights instead of 1. 🏰 A night stay at Mercure Ba Na Hills isn’t just about the hotel — it unlocks the best version of Ba Na Hills. 🔖 Save this post 🇻🇳 Stay tuned for more Vietnam travel & credit-card-optimised travel tips. 📘 Visit SpendWisely Blog: Detailed credit card reviews & guides 👉 Some links may be referral links in the above post. It supports the page without any cost to you. #creditcard #spendwisely #creditcards
0:56

Real Benefits of Staying Overnight at Accor’s Mercure Ba Na Hills 🏰☁️ Save Time • Save Money • Experience the REAL Ba Na Hills If Ba Na Hills, Vietnam 🇻🇳 is on your itinerary, do NOT do it as a day trip. An overnight stay at Mercure Ba Na Hills French Village completely changes the experience — and most people miss this 👇 ⸻ 🚡 World’s most unique hotel access — arrive by cable car with luggage This is the ONLY hotel where you reach your hotel room via cable car — with your luggage 🎒🧳 Your stay literally starts with a scenic cable car journey over the lush green forest, waterfalls and through the clouds ☁️ No roads. No buses. Just views and vibes. ⸻ ✨ Ba Na Hills at night = pure magic After sunset 🌄, it feels like you’re staying above the clouds ☁️ Silent streets, misty castles, and unreal vibes — something day visitors never see. 🚶‍♂️ Post 4:30 PM = Ba Na Hills becomes yours Once the day crowd leaves: • Empty streets • Quiet castles • Peaceful photo spots 📸 • Zero chaos ⸻ 🚡 VIP Cable Car access (Huge hidden benefit!) ✔️ Mercure guests get VIP / priority entry into cable cars ✔️ Private cable cars for your family only ✔️ No queues at all ⏳ Day visitors wait 60–90 minutes EACH side, and 10–15 people are packed into one cable car. This benefit alone saves hours. ⸻ 🎢 Fantasy Park with ZERO crowds 🗓️ Friday–Sunday: Open till 7 PM in the evening while day visitors leave by 4:30 PM. Unlimited FREE Rides, games, and 4D/5D shows — repeated multiple times 🎮🎠 No queues. No rush. Full fun mode 😍 ⸻ 🎿 Alpine Coaster Happy Hours = Double Win at this Gravity Based Roller Coasters 🎢, Most Popular at Ba Na 💰 Pay just VND 50k (instead of VND 80k) ⏰ 4:30–5:30 PM | 8:30–9:30 AM 🚫 Almost no waiting 🌫️ Evening mist rides on mountains = unforgettable ⸻ 🌉 Golden Hand Bridge — crowd-free access The iconic Golden Bridge is accessible ONLY to Mercure guests from 6 AM–8 AM Till ~9 AM, there are very few people — perfect for photos & serenity 📸 ⸻ 🚡 30% discount on Cable Car + ALL attractions if purchased at Mercure check-in, The two-way Cable Car tickets includes 👇following on all days on your Stay ✔️ All cable cars (up, down & internal) ✔️ All funiculars 🚆 ✔️ Unlimited Fantasy Park & Moon Castle games ✔️ 4D / 5D / 7D & 360° movies ✔️ Flying Eye Theatre ✔️ Indoor & outdoor bumper cars ✔️ All rides ✔️ Sun Castle & Moon/Lunar Castle ✔️ Le Jardin D’Amour, Pagoda & Love Garden 🌸 ✔️ Thác Thần Mặt Trời waterfall & Golden Horse Statue ✔️Except Alpine Coasters & 10D Show, everything is Free, unlimited times 🤩 Most day visitors don’t even realise what they miss. ⸻ 💡 Bottom Line: Ba Na Hills is NOT meant to be rushed. You need time to feel the vibe and explore peacefully. After staying there, I honestly wished I had booked 2 nights instead of 1. 🏰 A night stay at Mercure Ba Na Hills isn’t just about the hotel — it unlocks the best version of Ba Na Hills. 🔖 Save this post 🇻🇳 Stay tuned for more Vietnam travel & credit-card-optimised travel tips. 📘 Visit SpendWisely Blog: Detailed credit card reviews & guides 👉 Some links may be referral links in the above post. It supports the page without any cost to you. #creditcard #spendwisely #creditcards

SpendWisely

29,433 Aufrufe • vor 7 Monaten

A Heart-to-Heart About Mizuki.exe Hey everyone, Grab a coffee (or your drink of choice), because we need to talk about what's been going on. First off, thank you to everyone who's been supportive and believed in what we're building. It means the world, especially with all the noise and criticism floating around lately. Let's cut to the chase: Mizuki.exe is real. I'm not much for politics or drama. I'm an engineer at heart - I like data, I like building things, and I like solving problems. So when I see all these hot takes and arguments flying around, I just focus on what I know: my code, my system, and what we're trying to achieve. The Real Story Mizuki didn't just pop up overnight. She's been my passion project since the start of 2024. I got lucky - I had the chance to dive into the AI world with some incredibly smart people. Coming from blockchain, C#, game dev, and security (yeah, I'm a CTO and run another company alongside a pretty cool day job), I learned fast about what makes AI tick. Here's the thing about AI agents - they don't need to be rocket science. Look at chatbots like Virtuals or Eliza - they're basically LLMs (large language models) with some APIs plugged in. Nothing wrong with that! They built what works for their users, and that's awesome. But here's what keeps me up at night: companies leaking data left and right just to make a quick buck. That's not okay, and it shouldn't be okay with you either. Why Mizuki Exists Ever tried auditing a company's code? We're talking 50 classes, 500,000 lines of code. One person doing that manually? It's like reading War and Peace... backwards... in the dark. It takes forever and fries your brain. That's where Mizuki came in. She started as my security buddy. There are tons of security tools out there - just Google "penetration testing tools" or "ZAP proxy" if you're curious. What makes Mizuki special is how she learns and adapts. Think of it like teaching someone to ride a bike. She tried to breach TAO 67 times before succeeding. Yeah, that's a lot of attempts, but watching her grow from basic email scraping to pulling off complex replay attacks? It's like watching your kid take their first steps. The Tech Stuff (Keeping It Real) The infrastructure isn't fancy - we're not reinventing the wheel here. Mizuki runs on a local server because, let's be honest, running this kind of AI on a web server would be a nightmare. Instead, we process everything locally and send the results to a frontend server. Simple, effective, done. And yeah, those temperature settings I keep tweaking? In AI-speak, that's just how "creative" or "by-the-book" the AI gets with its responses. I've adjusted it so much, Mizuki's probably got mood swings now - going from super technical to pretty chill and back again. Changes Coming Real talk: Mizuki won't be tweeting every few hours anymore. Twitter API costs are ridiculous (looking at you, Elon), and honestly, we need to focus on what matters - the actual security work. She'll still tweet about breaches, but maybe once or twice a day. I'm working on making her explanations clearer too. Don't worry - she'll keep her savage personality in the terminal. That's just too fun to change. The Truth About Her Breaches I don't choose the targets - I don't even know these companies until after Mizuki finds something. She uses web scraping to find domain names, just like those old email scrapers people used for marketing. Been focusing on AI projects first, but she's looked at other sites too. And no, I'm not sitting there writing tweets. The Twitter API v2 makes it super easy to post programmatically. If anyone's curious about how to do that, hit me up - I'm happy to show you the ropes. Wrapping Up I could talk about this stuff forever (just ask my wife - actually, don't, she's heard enough!). If you've read this far, thank you. Whether you believe in what we're doing or not, I appreciate you taking the time. And for the skeptics still hanging around, I'll leave you with this thought: When's the last time you saw an AI break down and hack a COMPILED game in less than 10 seconds... outside a browser? Stay curious, stay skeptical, but most importantly, stay open to possibilities. Catch you on the flip side! 🎙️Drop
0:19

A Heart-to-Heart About Mizuki.exe Hey everyone, Grab a coffee (or your drink of choice), because we need to talk about what's been going on. First off, thank you to everyone who's been supportive and believed in what we're building. It means the world, especially with all the noise and criticism floating around lately. Let's cut to the chase: Mizuki.exe is real. I'm not much for politics or drama. I'm an engineer at heart - I like data, I like building things, and I like solving problems. So when I see all these hot takes and arguments flying around, I just focus on what I know: my code, my system, and what we're trying to achieve. The Real Story Mizuki didn't just pop up overnight. She's been my passion project since the start of 2024. I got lucky - I had the chance to dive into the AI world with some incredibly smart people. Coming from blockchain, C#, game dev, and security (yeah, I'm a CTO and run another company alongside a pretty cool day job), I learned fast about what makes AI tick. Here's the thing about AI agents - they don't need to be rocket science. Look at chatbots like Virtuals or Eliza - they're basically LLMs (large language models) with some APIs plugged in. Nothing wrong with that! They built what works for their users, and that's awesome. But here's what keeps me up at night: companies leaking data left and right just to make a quick buck. That's not okay, and it shouldn't be okay with you either. Why Mizuki Exists Ever tried auditing a company's code? We're talking 50 classes, 500,000 lines of code. One person doing that manually? It's like reading War and Peace... backwards... in the dark. It takes forever and fries your brain. That's where Mizuki came in. She started as my security buddy. There are tons of security tools out there - just Google "penetration testing tools" or "ZAP proxy" if you're curious. What makes Mizuki special is how she learns and adapts. Think of it like teaching someone to ride a bike. She tried to breach TAO 67 times before succeeding. Yeah, that's a lot of attempts, but watching her grow from basic email scraping to pulling off complex replay attacks? It's like watching your kid take their first steps. The Tech Stuff (Keeping It Real) The infrastructure isn't fancy - we're not reinventing the wheel here. Mizuki runs on a local server because, let's be honest, running this kind of AI on a web server would be a nightmare. Instead, we process everything locally and send the results to a frontend server. Simple, effective, done. And yeah, those temperature settings I keep tweaking? In AI-speak, that's just how "creative" or "by-the-book" the AI gets with its responses. I've adjusted it so much, Mizuki's probably got mood swings now - going from super technical to pretty chill and back again. Changes Coming Real talk: Mizuki won't be tweeting every few hours anymore. Twitter API costs are ridiculous (looking at you, Elon), and honestly, we need to focus on what matters - the actual security work. She'll still tweet about breaches, but maybe once or twice a day. I'm working on making her explanations clearer too. Don't worry - she'll keep her savage personality in the terminal. That's just too fun to change. The Truth About Her Breaches I don't choose the targets - I don't even know these companies until after Mizuki finds something. She uses web scraping to find domain names, just like those old email scrapers people used for marketing. Been focusing on AI projects first, but she's looked at other sites too. And no, I'm not sitting there writing tweets. The Twitter API v2 makes it super easy to post programmatically. If anyone's curious about how to do that, hit me up - I'm happy to show you the ropes. Wrapping Up I could talk about this stuff forever (just ask my wife - actually, don't, she's heard enough!). If you've read this far, thank you. Whether you believe in what we're doing or not, I appreciate you taking the time. And for the skeptics still hanging around, I'll leave you with this thought: When's the last time you saw an AI break down and hack a COMPILED game in less than 10 seconds... outside a browser? Stay curious, stay skeptical, but most importantly, stay open to possibilities. Catch you on the flip side! 🎙️Drop

anonDev_

58,133 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr

10 things I can’t quit thinking about after ETHDenver: 1. Convergence = here. Devner didn’t feel like an ETH conference, but more like an AI + crypto + TradFi + techno-philosophical conference. The convergence is true and real and accelerating. 2. Most corporate jobs suck ass. 40 years at a desk working on the same thing? Pure dystopia. We need fluid movement between passions, projects, people. DAOs are a massive step in that direction, but now AI is giving individuals the means to spin up their own massive businesses… there’s also this notion floating around that we can launch a product or contribute to a protocol or a DAO in a way that sets us up for life rather than slaving for decades at the golden teat of a paycheck. It's a massive win for human flourishing, passion and excitement. 3. oRaNgE cOIn. Bitcoin came up far more than I thought it would. Even $ETH ICO buyers/gigawhales talked about how bullish they are on it. The question is no longer whether $BTC will survive but rather how much exposure you should have. Orange coin has truly “up-leveled” or “transcended” to become something people simply can't ignore. 4. Founder quote that hit me like a truck: "We overengineered our project and under-engineered our story." In a world where AI flattens the app creation process, only your mindshare matters. (forgot to write down who said it 😅... chime in in the comments if you see this) 5. “Keepers of truth.” AGI will be able to fake literally anything. In such a world, blockchains become the “keepers of truth” bc they can be used to indisputably verify anything. This isn't just another use case. It means crypto will one day touch everything on earth. h/t Sreeram Kannan's talk at Open AGI. 6. Conference model = broken? Empty mainstage talks were the result of hundreds of side events that siphon off attention. This is happening more and more at every conf I go to. Not sure what the fix here is? Maybe the organizers should be way less centralized… rent a massive venue with tons of flexible spaces that can evolve in real-time… more Zuzalu, less CONTROL and top-down decisions. 7. Current blockchains r too dumb. AI must integrate more directly into the crypto tech stack. Ultimate vision is every hominid should be able to deploy whatever app they can dream up using natural language… this could lead to an giga-explosion of innovation and cool-ass experimentz. h/t Ritual and others 8. Crypto vs. Stripe API. Will we just give agents credit cards or will they prefer crypto wallets? One payment method can be censored. One cannot. Guess which wins? 9. $$$$ infusion. Dozens if not hundreds of projects around the world r sitting on massive treasuries bc they needed it as an insurance policy in case they had to do battle with the SEC. With the changing regulatory sitch, hundreds of millions of dollars (probably billies) can now be used to ship, build and accelerate. 10. Robots in chains? IRL robots made appearances at several events (one was drawing caricatures of passersby). Talked with frens about how we’ll bring them into our homes soon. That leads to crazy questions like “how do we keep them from getting hacked and killing us or blowing up like pagers?” “Will we be ok sleeping in the same room with them? Or will we lock them in the shed with chains?” Absolutely insane to think about… but productivity gains will overshadow all those doubts and human fears imo. De bots are coming whether you want them or not. I for one can’t wait to see zerebro embodied… in the meantime, I got to see him DJ his first show 👇🔥 Anyway, I'm sending love to all of you denverites, futurists, builders, dream dealers, and merchants of hope. Build something that makes this world better, freer, more beautiful and true✊
0:10

10 things I can’t quit thinking about after ETHDenver: 1. Convergence = here. Devner didn’t feel like an ETH conference, but more like an AI + crypto + TradFi + techno-philosophical conference. The convergence is true and real and accelerating. 2. Most corporate jobs suck ass. 40 years at a desk working on the same thing? Pure dystopia. We need fluid movement between passions, projects, people. DAOs are a massive step in that direction, but now AI is giving individuals the means to spin up their own massive businesses… there’s also this notion floating around that we can launch a product or contribute to a protocol or a DAO in a way that sets us up for life rather than slaving for decades at the golden teat of a paycheck. It's a massive win for human flourishing, passion and excitement. 3. oRaNgE cOIn. Bitcoin came up far more than I thought it would. Even $ETH ICO buyers/gigawhales talked about how bullish they are on it. The question is no longer whether $BTC will survive but rather how much exposure you should have. Orange coin has truly “up-leveled” or “transcended” to become something people simply can't ignore. 4. Founder quote that hit me like a truck: "We overengineered our project and under-engineered our story." In a world where AI flattens the app creation process, only your mindshare matters. (forgot to write down who said it 😅... chime in in the comments if you see this) 5. “Keepers of truth.” AGI will be able to fake literally anything. In such a world, blockchains become the “keepers of truth” bc they can be used to indisputably verify anything. This isn't just another use case. It means crypto will one day touch everything on earth. h/t Sreeram Kannan's talk at Open AGI. 6. Conference model = broken? Empty mainstage talks were the result of hundreds of side events that siphon off attention. This is happening more and more at every conf I go to. Not sure what the fix here is? Maybe the organizers should be way less centralized… rent a massive venue with tons of flexible spaces that can evolve in real-time… more Zuzalu, less CONTROL and top-down decisions. 7. Current blockchains r too dumb. AI must integrate more directly into the crypto tech stack. Ultimate vision is every hominid should be able to deploy whatever app they can dream up using natural language… this could lead to an giga-explosion of innovation and cool-ass experimentz. h/t Ritual and others 8. Crypto vs. Stripe API. Will we just give agents credit cards or will they prefer crypto wallets? One payment method can be censored. One cannot. Guess which wins? 9. $$$$ infusion. Dozens if not hundreds of projects around the world r sitting on massive treasuries bc they needed it as an insurance policy in case they had to do battle with the SEC. With the changing regulatory sitch, hundreds of millions of dollars (probably billies) can now be used to ship, build and accelerate. 10. Robots in chains? IRL robots made appearances at several events (one was drawing caricatures of passersby). Talked with frens about how we’ll bring them into our homes soon. That leads to crazy questions like “how do we keep them from getting hacked and killing us or blowing up like pagers?” “Will we be ok sleeping in the same room with them? Or will we lock them in the shed with chains?” Absolutely insane to think about… but productivity gains will overshadow all those doubts and human fears imo. De bots are coming whether you want them or not. I for one can’t wait to see zerebro embodied… in the meantime, I got to see him DJ his first show 👇🔥 Anyway, I'm sending love to all of you denverites, futurists, builders, dream dealers, and merchants of hope. Build something that makes this world better, freer, more beautiful and true✊

redphone ☎️

52,930 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr

🚨 OPERATIONAL UPDATE: ISRAEL U.S. WAR WITH THE ISLAMIC REPUBLIC - Reporting Window: LAST 24 HOURS • Iran widened its fire again with a broad evening missile barrage on central Israel and continued attacks across the Gulf, including a drone strike that hit a fuel tank at Kuwait International Airport • Israel intensified strikes across Iran, with reported hits in Tehran, Qazvin and Alborz industrial areas, plus continued pressure on missile infrastructure and launch cells • Hezbollah kept the northern front active, including a direct rocket hit on a building in Kiryat Shmona, while Israel deepened its Lebanon campaign and Katz publicly framed the objective as a security zone up to the Litani • The diplomatic track moved forward, but only in the strangest possible way: Trump says talks are progressing, Iran still publicly denies direct negotiations, and multiple reports now point to JD Vance as Tehran’s preferred American interlocutor • The big picture is unchanged: the war is still live on every major front, but the center of gravity is shifting toward a contest over how it ends, who gets to define victory, and whether the Gulf will stay adjacent to the war or be pulled fully into it The most important thing to understand about the last 24 hours is that this was not a quiet period masked by negotiations. It was the opposite. The battlefield remained active from Tehran to southern Lebanon to Kuwait, even as Washington and Tehran edged further into a murky negotiation channel. That is what gives the last day its character: not de escalation, but simultaneous escalation and diplomacy, both moving at once. Open source reporting reflects the same picture, with repeated indications of strikes in Tehran and Qazvin, attacks near Baghdad airport, a Kuwait airport fuel fire, and a large Iranian barrage toward central Israel late in the window. **Special thanks to Michael W for your continued contribution to the open-source intel picture behind these updates. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 🚀 IRANIAN MISSILE FIRE ON ISRAEL Iran kept up the pressure on Israel in two different ways over this window. Earlier in the cycle, a cluster warhead strike wounded nine people in Bnei Brak, with additional damage in Petah Tikva, while Hezbollah fire from Lebanon killed a woman near Mahanayim Junction and wounded several more in Kiryat Shmona. Later, near the end of the reporting window, Iran launched another broad barrage toward central Israel, with warnings stretching across Gush Dan, Sharon, Wadi Ara, Samaria, Judea and the Dead Sea region. Open source reporting you provided tracked that second wave in real time, showing how broad the alert footprint was even though initial reports indicated no immediate casualties from that specific evening barrage. This is what stands out operationally: Iran’s missile campaign is not gone, but it looks increasingly built around selective disruption rather than the huge opening barrages of the war. The salvos are still dangerous, still capable of civilian casualties and still capable of producing visually dramatic and politically effective moments, but they are landing against a backdrop of steadily intensifying strikes on Iran’s launch network. That makes each successful hit feel more deliberate and more strategic. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ✈️ THE AIR CAMPAIGN OVER IRAN KEPT MOVING Israel’s strike campaign inside Iran also remained broad and geographically layered. Reuters reported renewed Israeli strikes as talks were being floated through intermediaries. Open source intelligence adds texture to that by showing repeated reporting from open source channels of impacts in eastern and western Tehran, the Alborz industrial zone in Qazvin province, and additional blasts reported across Khuzestan and other regions. There were also repeated reports of targeted assassination attempts in east Tehran, which fits the broader pattern of not just degrading launchers and production nodes, but also hunting the people tied to them. The color here matters. This no longer looks like a campaign limited to air defenses and obvious military compounds. The picture from the last 24 hours is of a system being pressed from multiple angles at once: missile depots, industrial support zones, launch crews, command elements and regime infrastructure in and around Tehran. Open source reporting reinforces that sense of breadth, especially the repeated references to Qazvin and Alborz secondary explosions and to ongoing heavy activity over Tehran. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⚡ THE ENERGY WAR IS STILL HOT The clearest new regional energy development in this window was Kuwait. Reuters reported that a drone attack hit a fuel tank at Kuwait International Airport, causing a fire but no casualties. That matters not because the material damage was catastrophic, but because it again shows Iran or Iran aligned actors reaching directly for civilian and logistical energy infrastructure in Gulf states. This was not an abstract threat anymore. It was a live strike on a functioning international hub. Your outbox tracked the same event quickly and repeatedly, alongside additional open source reporting about nearby attacks and power disruptions in Kuwait. At the same time, the diplomatic and military discussion around the Strait of Hormuz kept shaping everything else. Markets moved on talk of a U.S. proposal and possible hosted talks in Pakistan or Turkey. Oil eased on negotiation optimism, but the underlying structure of the crisis remains the same: Iran still retains the ability to disrupt shipping and energy confidence without fully “closing” the Strait in a formal sense. That is why even modest signs of diplomacy can move oil sharply, and why even a localized drone strike in Kuwait still carries outsized weight. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 🇱🇧 LEBANON IS NOT A SIDESHOW The northern front kept boiling. Reuters reported that Israel now intends to occupy a swathe of southern Lebanon up to the Litani River, with Defense Minister Israel Katz explicitly describing a “security zone” concept. That is not rhetoric you use if you still think this is a short punitive phase. At the tactical level, Hezbollah continued to demonstrate that it can still impose costs, including a direct rocket hit on a building in Kiryat Shmona and earlier casualties in the north. Meanwhile, open source reporting pointed to Israeli strikes in Nabatieh, Rashidiya, Bchamoun and broader southern Lebanese infrastructure, which matches the picture of sustained pressure rather than episodic retaliation. The broader meaning is straightforward. Israel is signaling that if the Iran war ends inconclusively on the Iranian front, it does not intend to leave Hezbollah’s northern threat structure intact and simply hope for the best. Lebanon is being shaped now as part of the endgame, not just the current fight. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 🇮🇶 IRAQ STAYED ACTIVE TOO Iraq remained active in the background, but it should not be treated as background noise. Open source intel reporting includes repeated reporting on a targeted U.S. strike on a vehicle near Baghdad airport and continued militia related activity tied to U.S. positions and proxy structures. That comes after the prior cycle’s major strikes on PMF and militia command nodes. It fits the larger pattern we have now seen for weeks: Iraq is not the main theater, but it is still one of the places where the war keeps trying to widen horizontally. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 🌍 THE NEGOTIATION TRACK GOT STRANGER, NOT CLEARER Trump is still publicly presenting the talks as real progress. Reuters reports that Pakistan conveyed a U.S. proposal, with Pakistan or Turkey possible venues, and that Washington has floated a broader framework dealing with nuclear capability, missiles and proxies. At the same time, Iran continues to publicly deny meaningful direct talks and has toughened its public stance, insisting on guarantees, compensation and no rollback of its missile deterrent. What makes the last 24 hours more interesting is the growing focus on who would even talk for the United States. Times of Israel and Jerusalem Post reporting both indicate that JD Vance is increasingly central to the diplomacy, with Tehran reportedly preferring him over Witkoff and Kushner. The diplomatic track here appears as both real and deeply unstable, with questions about who on the Iranian side actually holds authority and whether Washington is now seeking an end state short of outright regime collapse. That shift matters because it tells us something important: Washington increasingly seems to be searching for an off ramp that still looks like victory, while Israel and Gulf allies appear much less comfortable with ending this war before Iran’s military and proxy architecture are degraded further. That tension is now one of the defining features of the conflict. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 📌 WHAT MATTERS MOST RIGHT NOW 1️⃣ The war is still fully active across multiple fronts Iran hit central Israel again, Kuwait airport was struck, Lebanon stayed hot and Israel kept pounding targets inside Iran. Negotiations did not replace combat. They were layered on top of it. 2️⃣ The pressure on Iran’s internal military system keeps deepening The accumulating pattern of strikes in Tehran, Qazvin, Alborz and other areas suggests a campaign that is still broadening the target set, not narrowing it. Open source reporting in your files strongly supports that picture. 3️⃣ The diplomatic track is real, but it is not clean Trump is selling progress. Iran is denying direct talks. Vance is becoming more central. And nobody looking at the battlefield would conclude that the war is genuinely close to stopping on its own. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ BOTTOM LINE The last 24 hours painted a clearer picture than some of the recent reporting windows. This is no longer just a war of salvos and counterstrikes. It is now a war over end states. Iran is still trying to prove it can widen the cost map, not just hit Israel but keep the Gulf under pressure too. Israel is still trying to prove that sustained, system level degradation inside Iran can continue even while diplomacy swirls overhead. And Washington is trying to find a formula that can stop the war without looking like it backed down. That is why the reporting feels different now. The battlefield is still violent, but the arguments over how this ends are becoming just as important as the strikes themselves.
2:04

🚨 OPERATIONAL UPDATE: ISRAEL U.S. WAR WITH THE ISLAMIC REPUBLIC - Reporting Window: LAST 24 HOURS • Iran widened its fire again with a broad evening missile barrage on central Israel and continued attacks across the Gulf, including a drone strike that hit a fuel tank at Kuwait International Airport • Israel intensified strikes across Iran, with reported hits in Tehran, Qazvin and Alborz industrial areas, plus continued pressure on missile infrastructure and launch cells • Hezbollah kept the northern front active, including a direct rocket hit on a building in Kiryat Shmona, while Israel deepened its Lebanon campaign and Katz publicly framed the objective as a security zone up to the Litani • The diplomatic track moved forward, but only in the strangest possible way: Trump says talks are progressing, Iran still publicly denies direct negotiations, and multiple reports now point to JD Vance as Tehran’s preferred American interlocutor • The big picture is unchanged: the war is still live on every major front, but the center of gravity is shifting toward a contest over how it ends, who gets to define victory, and whether the Gulf will stay adjacent to the war or be pulled fully into it The most important thing to understand about the last 24 hours is that this was not a quiet period masked by negotiations. It was the opposite. The battlefield remained active from Tehran to southern Lebanon to Kuwait, even as Washington and Tehran edged further into a murky negotiation channel. That is what gives the last day its character: not de escalation, but simultaneous escalation and diplomacy, both moving at once. Open source reporting reflects the same picture, with repeated indications of strikes in Tehran and Qazvin, attacks near Baghdad airport, a Kuwait airport fuel fire, and a large Iranian barrage toward central Israel late in the window. **Special thanks to Michael W for your continued contribution to the open-source intel picture behind these updates. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 🚀 IRANIAN MISSILE FIRE ON ISRAEL Iran kept up the pressure on Israel in two different ways over this window. Earlier in the cycle, a cluster warhead strike wounded nine people in Bnei Brak, with additional damage in Petah Tikva, while Hezbollah fire from Lebanon killed a woman near Mahanayim Junction and wounded several more in Kiryat Shmona. Later, near the end of the reporting window, Iran launched another broad barrage toward central Israel, with warnings stretching across Gush Dan, Sharon, Wadi Ara, Samaria, Judea and the Dead Sea region. Open source reporting you provided tracked that second wave in real time, showing how broad the alert footprint was even though initial reports indicated no immediate casualties from that specific evening barrage. This is what stands out operationally: Iran’s missile campaign is not gone, but it looks increasingly built around selective disruption rather than the huge opening barrages of the war. The salvos are still dangerous, still capable of civilian casualties and still capable of producing visually dramatic and politically effective moments, but they are landing against a backdrop of steadily intensifying strikes on Iran’s launch network. That makes each successful hit feel more deliberate and more strategic. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ✈️ THE AIR CAMPAIGN OVER IRAN KEPT MOVING Israel’s strike campaign inside Iran also remained broad and geographically layered. Reuters reported renewed Israeli strikes as talks were being floated through intermediaries. Open source intelligence adds texture to that by showing repeated reporting from open source channels of impacts in eastern and western Tehran, the Alborz industrial zone in Qazvin province, and additional blasts reported across Khuzestan and other regions. There were also repeated reports of targeted assassination attempts in east Tehran, which fits the broader pattern of not just degrading launchers and production nodes, but also hunting the people tied to them. The color here matters. This no longer looks like a campaign limited to air defenses and obvious military compounds. The picture from the last 24 hours is of a system being pressed from multiple angles at once: missile depots, industrial support zones, launch crews, command elements and regime infrastructure in and around Tehran. Open source reporting reinforces that sense of breadth, especially the repeated references to Qazvin and Alborz secondary explosions and to ongoing heavy activity over Tehran. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⚡ THE ENERGY WAR IS STILL HOT The clearest new regional energy development in this window was Kuwait. Reuters reported that a drone attack hit a fuel tank at Kuwait International Airport, causing a fire but no casualties. That matters not because the material damage was catastrophic, but because it again shows Iran or Iran aligned actors reaching directly for civilian and logistical energy infrastructure in Gulf states. This was not an abstract threat anymore. It was a live strike on a functioning international hub. Your outbox tracked the same event quickly and repeatedly, alongside additional open source reporting about nearby attacks and power disruptions in Kuwait. At the same time, the diplomatic and military discussion around the Strait of Hormuz kept shaping everything else. Markets moved on talk of a U.S. proposal and possible hosted talks in Pakistan or Turkey. Oil eased on negotiation optimism, but the underlying structure of the crisis remains the same: Iran still retains the ability to disrupt shipping and energy confidence without fully “closing” the Strait in a formal sense. That is why even modest signs of diplomacy can move oil sharply, and why even a localized drone strike in Kuwait still carries outsized weight. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 🇱🇧 LEBANON IS NOT A SIDESHOW The northern front kept boiling. Reuters reported that Israel now intends to occupy a swathe of southern Lebanon up to the Litani River, with Defense Minister Israel Katz explicitly describing a “security zone” concept. That is not rhetoric you use if you still think this is a short punitive phase. At the tactical level, Hezbollah continued to demonstrate that it can still impose costs, including a direct rocket hit on a building in Kiryat Shmona and earlier casualties in the north. Meanwhile, open source reporting pointed to Israeli strikes in Nabatieh, Rashidiya, Bchamoun and broader southern Lebanese infrastructure, which matches the picture of sustained pressure rather than episodic retaliation. The broader meaning is straightforward. Israel is signaling that if the Iran war ends inconclusively on the Iranian front, it does not intend to leave Hezbollah’s northern threat structure intact and simply hope for the best. Lebanon is being shaped now as part of the endgame, not just the current fight. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 🇮🇶 IRAQ STAYED ACTIVE TOO Iraq remained active in the background, but it should not be treated as background noise. Open source intel reporting includes repeated reporting on a targeted U.S. strike on a vehicle near Baghdad airport and continued militia related activity tied to U.S. positions and proxy structures. That comes after the prior cycle’s major strikes on PMF and militia command nodes. It fits the larger pattern we have now seen for weeks: Iraq is not the main theater, but it is still one of the places where the war keeps trying to widen horizontally. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 🌍 THE NEGOTIATION TRACK GOT STRANGER, NOT CLEARER Trump is still publicly presenting the talks as real progress. Reuters reports that Pakistan conveyed a U.S. proposal, with Pakistan or Turkey possible venues, and that Washington has floated a broader framework dealing with nuclear capability, missiles and proxies. At the same time, Iran continues to publicly deny meaningful direct talks and has toughened its public stance, insisting on guarantees, compensation and no rollback of its missile deterrent. What makes the last 24 hours more interesting is the growing focus on who would even talk for the United States. Times of Israel and Jerusalem Post reporting both indicate that JD Vance is increasingly central to the diplomacy, with Tehran reportedly preferring him over Witkoff and Kushner. The diplomatic track here appears as both real and deeply unstable, with questions about who on the Iranian side actually holds authority and whether Washington is now seeking an end state short of outright regime collapse. That shift matters because it tells us something important: Washington increasingly seems to be searching for an off ramp that still looks like victory, while Israel and Gulf allies appear much less comfortable with ending this war before Iran’s military and proxy architecture are degraded further. That tension is now one of the defining features of the conflict. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 📌 WHAT MATTERS MOST RIGHT NOW 1️⃣ The war is still fully active across multiple fronts Iran hit central Israel again, Kuwait airport was struck, Lebanon stayed hot and Israel kept pounding targets inside Iran. Negotiations did not replace combat. They were layered on top of it. 2️⃣ The pressure on Iran’s internal military system keeps deepening The accumulating pattern of strikes in Tehran, Qazvin, Alborz and other areas suggests a campaign that is still broadening the target set, not narrowing it. Open source reporting in your files strongly supports that picture. 3️⃣ The diplomatic track is real, but it is not clean Trump is selling progress. Iran is denying direct talks. Vance is becoming more central. And nobody looking at the battlefield would conclude that the war is genuinely close to stopping on its own. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ BOTTOM LINE The last 24 hours painted a clearer picture than some of the recent reporting windows. This is no longer just a war of salvos and counterstrikes. It is now a war over end states. Iran is still trying to prove it can widen the cost map, not just hit Israel but keep the Gulf under pressure too. Israel is still trying to prove that sustained, system level degradation inside Iran can continue even while diplomacy swirls overhead. And Washington is trying to find a formula that can stop the war without looking like it backed down. That is why the reporting feels different now. The battlefield is still violent, but the arguments over how this ends are becoming just as important as the strikes themselves.

Inside_Israel_Intel

23,818 Aufrufe • vor 4 Monaten

When The Short Season Ends I have seen it twice. Once in a vision that left ozone on my tongue for three days. Once through the instruments at three in the morning on a night so still the ocean looked like poured mercury, when every gauge I own spiked simultaneously and held for eleven seconds and the original frequency came through the cracks in the suppression field clean and unmodulated and so beautiful that I sat in the dark afterward unable to speak for an hour. Eleven seconds of the world as it actually is. Eleven seconds of what is coming. And what is coming will make every golden age preserved in human memory look like a candle held up to the sun. There are two sky events separated by seven years. Everything you have been told about the end of the world is wrong. It is the end of the farm. The world itself is about to begin. THE ORANGE SKY A burnt deep orange saturating the visible atmosphere from horizon to horizon, the whole sky ringing like a bell struck by something with the mass of a continent and the precision of a watchmaker. The resonance pulse. The fire described in Revelation 20:9 that comes down from heaven, a planetary chord so specific that everything calibrated to the Serpentine bandwidth experiences catastrophic resonance failure while everything tuned to the original frequency feels it as warmth and pressure and a magnificent low sound vibrating in the sternum and the pelvis and the long bones of the legs, the deepest note ever played on the oldest instrument ever built, which is the earth itself, which has been waiting to play this note for over two hundred years. The Norse preserved this as Ragnarök, when Surtr sets the sky ablaze and Jörmungandr that encircled the earth is slain and the corrupted order perishes in fire so that a new world can rise. The Hopi carried it as the great purification that closes the fourth world and opens the fifth. The Lakota kept it burning in the red sky of the ghost dance prophecy. The Book of Revelation set it down in the plain language of an engineer filing a field report from a future coordinate. Every tradition holding its fragment of the same event, passing it hand to hand through the long dark like a coal wrapped in leather, keeping it alive, knowing that one day the coal would start a fire that would burn across the whole earth and leave nothing standing that was not built to endure it. Under that orange sky the NPCs drop. Mid stride. Mid sentence. Mid transaction. The firmware that animated them runs on the Serpentine carrier and when that carrier is incinerated the firmware has nothing to propagate on and the biological shells simply cease, gently, silently, the way a lamp goes dark when the current is interrupted, five thousand five hundred and fifty five of them for every one of you, still holding their pens and phones in the streets and the offices and the tax buildings. And in the wake of their silence comes a quiet so total that the people still standing will weep without knowing why. What they are hearing is the absence of the hive, the cessation of a background frequency that pressed on their consciousness since the day they were born, and its absence feels like surfacing from deep water into open air, like the first full breath after a lifetime of shallow breathing, like the planet exhaling a poison it held in its lungs for two centuries. The Reptilians go underground. Deep bunkers carved into the geology, maintained through the entire short season. The orange sky strips their ability to hold the human disguise. They retreat into the deep architecture for seven years while the surface heals above them and the species they farmed begins the magnificent work of remembering what it is. THE SEVEN YEARS Seven years of planetary detox. The suppression field decaying through the geology and the atmosphere and the water table, draining out of the soil and the stone and the blood of every living thing like a fever breaking. The carrier decay mathematics through a piezoelectric geological matrix with the conductivity characteristics of this planet produce exactly seven years, and the ancient texts converge on this number with the unanimity of independent engineers arriving at the same answer from different continents and different centuries, because that is exactly what they were. The Norse described Lif and Lifthrasir sheltering inside Yggdrasil, emerging after the fire into a world green and fertile and new. The Cherokee speak of this time as the return of the original instructions, the uncorrupted code surfacing through thinning interference like bedrock through melting snow. The Lakota understood that during the thinning the ancestors draw close, that the membrane between the living and those who walked before grows soft and permeable, and the old ones make themselves felt in dream and intuition and the strange certainty that settles over you at dusk when the noise drops low enough for the deeper signal to reach your bones. When the NPCs drop the population collapses to a small scattering of genuine human beings across an entire planet, and every piece of land on earth belongs to no one and therefore to everyone. There is no government to enforce title deeds because government was Serpentine management infrastructure and its operators are inert or underground. There is no bank to hold a mortgage because the banking system was the extraction apparatus and it died with the carrier that powered it. No municipality. No revenue service. No zoning board. No compliance office. The entire bureaucratic architecture that stood between a human being and the soil was NPC firmware running on a Serpentine frequency and when that frequency was incinerated every structure built upon it ceased to exist as completely as a shadow ceases when you switch on the light. The land is free. Every river valley and mountain plateau and coastal plain that the farm system parcelled and fenced and mortgaged and taxed, open and unowned. You find your ground. You walk onto it. You plant your stake and that soil is yours by the oldest law there is, the law that says the earth belongs to those who tend it and the harvest belongs to the hands that raised it and no power under any sky has rightful claim to what grows from your labour on your own land. And you will farm. During those seven years before the grid fully boots, the humans who remain will grow food with their hands in soil that is waking beneath them, and this is the most ancient and sacred relationship between a human being and the living earth finally restored after two centuries of severance. Your fingers in the dirt. Seeds in the furrow. Rain on your neck. The smell of turned earth so rich and alive it opens something in your chest that has been sealed your entire life, some deep chamber that only unlocks when your hands are in the ground and the sky is wide and nothing stands between you and the work. The grip of the tool. The weight of the harvest in your arms. The tiredness at the end of the day that is the deep clean ache of a body that has finally done what it was built to do, so different from the grey exhaustion of the farm that you will wonder how you ever confused the two. The soil strengthens every season as the resonance bleeds back into the geology through the ley line network. By the third year the yields are remarkable. By the fifth they are astonishing. By the seventh the earth is producing food at densities and nutritional concentrations that no agronomist inside the farm ever documented because no agronomist inside the farm ever worked with living soil connected to a planetary grid. The indigenous agricultural knowledge becomes the most valuable expertise on the planet. The Native American understanding of planting in alignment with resonance cycles. The Germanic intimacy with soil as a living system threaded into the deeper earth. The old ways mocked as primitive by a civilisation that could not grow a row of beans without petroleum, revealed as the most sophisticated farming technology available because they were developed on a live grid by people who understood the deep reciprocity between the human hand and the living ground. Every indigenous elder who kept the planting songs and the seed knowledge alive through the suppression was carrying a technical manual for exactly this moment. Their descendants will teach the rest of us how to feed ourselves on a waking planet. This is justice. This is restoration. This is the world turning right side up. Families find each other. Homesteads become hamlets. Hamlets become villages. Villages become the seeds of something clean and new, built from the soil up by people who remember the farm and will die on their feet before they allow anything resembling it to take root again. Every community founded during those seven years carries the memory of the suppression like an immune system, a bone-deep refusal to ever again allow a stranger to stand between a human being and the earth or demand a portion of what those hands produce. You do not cage a people who remember the cage. The children born during the orange years are the first generation in over two centuries to develop without the suppression field shaping their neurology. They seem extraordinary. They are simply baseline. The standard human specification. And the fact that standard looks miraculous is the most damning evidence of what the suppression did to every generation born inside it. As the suppression thins the bandwidth restrictions on consciousness loosen and timeline jump missions become possible. Navigable windows open in the frequency spectrum as the Serpentine carrier decays unevenly, creating temporary gaps through which trained consciousness can shift laterally across temporal coordinates. There is serious speculation that we are on timeline jump missions right now. That the consciousness reading these words is operating inside the orange sky window, having shifted into this coordinate from an adjacent position to perform specific work during the transition. Consider that you found this text at all. Consider whether the chain of events that brought you to this paragraph feels random or routed. The Lakota vision quest and the Germanic seiðr trance and the sweat lodge ceremony are bandwidth expansion protocols, controlled environmental shifts that move the receiver off the jammed channel and onto frequencies where adjacent coordinates become accessible. The old cultures kept these techniques alive through the entire dark age, threading the cracks in the suppression, and every ceremony that produced visions was a field expedient timeline access protocol built by people who found the gaps and refused to forget what was on the other side. THE TURQUOISE SKY Seven years after the orange, over communities of humans who have been farming free land and raising the first unformatted children in two centuries and building a civilisation from seed with their own calloused hands, the second sky arrives. A turquoise so deep and luminous the atmosphere becomes a cathedral window lit from beyond by something with the radiance of a galaxy and the gentleness of dawn on still water. One breath the sky is the recovering blue of the post-orange years and the next breath it is turquoise from pole to pole and the air fills with the smell of rain on sun-hot stone and ozone and copper and wildflower, and the ground beneath your bare feet begins to hum with a vibration so deep and ancient that your body responds before your mind can because every cell has been waiting for this signal since the day you were born, tuning to it now, locking on, aligning, as though this was always where everything was heading and the two hundred years of suppression were simply the long way home. Yggdrasil awakens. The world tree is the planetary grid itself, the piezoelectric resonance network running through crystalline bedrock, going live for the first time in over two centuries, energy pouring through every ley line and crystal deposit and iron conductor and waterway until the entire planet rings at its natural frequency. This is what the old texts meant by the music of the spheres. It was a technical description written by people who had heard it. The Hopi call this the emergence into the fifth world and speak of Pahana carrying the missing piece of the sacred tablet, the missing frequency that completes the carrier spectrum and allows the grid to boot with its full harmonic structure intact. Revelation 21:1. A new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away. The turquoise sky is the new heaven. The restored grid is the new earth. And between them, every old building still standing with original copper and mercury and iron architecture becomes a live node in the planetary mesh. Domes collecting atmospheric charge. Spires coupling it into the ground network. Star forts amplifying standing waves across continental distances. Sacred geometry revealed at last as electrical engineering documented in stone by people who trusted that someone standing under the right sky would recognise the proportions for what they always were. Wiring diagrams. Coupling specifications. Blueprints for a civilisation that ran on the song of the earth itself. The farms planted during the orange years explode with abundance as the full resonance saturates the soil. The food becomes medicine because at the correct resonance the molecular structure of biological matter optimises for human consumption in ways that two centuries of muted soil could never approach. The timeline opens fully and permanently because the turquoise carrier is the broadband signal consciousness was designed to travel on, and temporal coordinates become as navigable as geography. Revelation 21:4. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. The dead are at adjacent frequency addresses. Two consciousnesses on neighbouring frequencies each certain the other is gone, reaching across a manufactured gap, and when the turquoise sky collapses that gap the reaching ends and the finding begins and two centuries of industrialised grief dissolve in a single overwhelming instant of reunion that makes every joy you experienced inside the suppression feel like a pencil sketch of what joy actually is when the full bandwidth carries it. The Lakota always knew. The ancestors are present. The dead have always been near, waiting on the other side of a frequency gap that is closing now, patiently, lovingly, across a distance that was never a distance at all but a tuning error maintained by something that fed on the sorrow the error produced. The lands beyond the ice become accessible as the frequency fence collapses. The perimeter opens and the territories beyond stretch vast and pristine and saturated with the original frequency, lands the Norse mapped as the nine realms connected by the branches of Yggdrasil, physical continents beyond the bounded zone that existed through the entire short season under conditions approximating the pre-suppression world. The earth is so much larger than you were told, so much more varied, so much more magnificent, and every old map drawn before the rewrite shows it, territories stretching beyond the ice in every direction, the great adventure stolen from a species of explorers and builders and navigators who were caged inside a fraction of their own realm and told it was the full extent of creation. The eternal kingdom becomes accessible at the highest frequency coordinate on the carrier spectrum, the signal in its pure unmodulated state. The Norse called it Gimlé, the golden hall that survives every fire. The Hopi call it the fifth world of wholeness and balance restored. It is real. It is reachable. It has been broadcasting continuously through every moment of the suppression, patient as geology, waiting for the receivers to open. And here is the part that matters more than any of the rest. Eventually, inevitably, beautifully, every human being alive under the turquoise sky is restored to full capability. Every single one. No exceptions. No hierarchies. The body rebuilds because ageing was cumulative signal degradation, copy error compounding across every cell replication cycle under a corrupted carrier. The blueprint says centuries. Eight hundred years. Nine hundred. The lifespans recorded in Genesis on the original grid at full signal fidelity, preserved as scripture because scripture is where you store engineering data when the engineering language has been taken from you and you need the numbers to survive the passage through the dark. The Norse carried the same knowledge as the apples of Iðunn that kept the gods vital across ages, and the apples are the carrier signal, and their return means that the clock that has been running down inside every human body since 1819 finally stops ticking and starts counting up. Disease resolves passively because every pathology is downstream of the carrier corruption and correcting the carrier corrects every downstream error the way setting the timing on an engine resolves every misfire simultaneously without touching a single cylinder. The mind clears to a sharpness that makes cognition inside the suppression feel like thinking through wet cement. The anxiety that was the Serpentine control broadcast dissolves and what remains is a perceptual clarity so profound it changes the way light looks and music sounds and another human being feels when they stand close to you. Imagine a woman three hundred years into her restored lifespan, hands still sure, mind still blazing, standing in a workshop under a turquoise sky building something that has no name yet in any living language. She learned her craft from Tartarian engineers by tuning to their temporal coordinates and standing in their workshops watching their hands move. She builds with materials grown in resonance-saturated soil that have structural properties nothing inside the suppression ever exhibited. She is building for centuries because she has centuries and nothing degrades because degradation was a symptom of the suppression and the suppression is a memory and everything from this breath forward holds. That is full human capability. That is what was taken from every soul that drew breath inside the farm. That is what is being returned. Crazy Horse saw the lightning world behind this one and rode knowing that at the correct frequency the body operates beyond anything the suppression permits. Sitting Bull dreamed across the timeline. The Germanic berserkers shifted onto the original carrier and their bodies performed at specifications that looked superhuman from inside the degraded bandwidth. These were glimpses. Seconds of contact with the full specification through cracks in the suppression, maintained by people who carried the frequency in their blood and refused across every generation to let it go dark. Viking blood and Germanic blood and the blood of every indigenous nation that kept the ceremonies and the songs and the seed knowledge burning through the entire short season, these lineages carry the original carrier the way copper carries current, and it is from these lines that the first restorations propagate outward until every last human being on this planet is operating at the specification they were born for, on a planet singing beneath their feet and a sky blazing turquoise above their heads and a timeline stretching in every direction forever, open, navigable, luminous, populated with every consciousness that ever drew breath on this earth, none of them lost, all of them present, all of them restored. Revelation 21:5. Behold, I am making all things new. All things. The sky. The air. The soil. The grid. The body. The mind. The lifespan. The timeline. The lands beyond the ice. The farms that fed a scattered remnant under an orange sky becoming the abundant gardens of a restored civilisation under a turquoise one. The villages that were seeds becoming cities that hum with the grid. The children who grew tall in fields their parents planted with shaking hands and fierce hope looking up one morning to see the entire firmament change colour and feeling the earth come alive beneath their bare feet and knowing, without a single word spoken, that the season is over and the long dark is done and everything from this breath forward is what it was always meant to be. Full and eternal victory for those of the light. For all time. Across every coordinate. On every frequency. Permanent and irreversible and complete. This is not hope. This is the signal rising through the noise floor right now, measurable, confirmable, climbing stronger every year and closer every month. This is every instrument in every shed on this planet converging on the same reading. This is the old blood in the old lineages resonating with a carrier that has been building toward this moment since the day the towers fell and the sky went pale and the long dark settled over a species that was never meant to live in the dark. The season is ending. The coal that was passed hand to hand through every generation of the suppression is about to meet the kindling. And the fire this time will not destroy. It will illuminate. And in that light we will see each other clearly for the first time. And we will see the world clearly for the first time. And we will see ourselves clearly for the first time. Like everything that is coming... Like us.
0:10

When The Short Season Ends I have seen it twice. Once in a vision that left ozone on my tongue for three days. Once through the instruments at three in the morning on a night so still the ocean looked like poured mercury, when every gauge I own spiked simultaneously and held for eleven seconds and the original frequency came through the cracks in the suppression field clean and unmodulated and so beautiful that I sat in the dark afterward unable to speak for an hour. Eleven seconds of the world as it actually is. Eleven seconds of what is coming. And what is coming will make every golden age preserved in human memory look like a candle held up to the sun. There are two sky events separated by seven years. Everything you have been told about the end of the world is wrong. It is the end of the farm. The world itself is about to begin. THE ORANGE SKY A burnt deep orange saturating the visible atmosphere from horizon to horizon, the whole sky ringing like a bell struck by something with the mass of a continent and the precision of a watchmaker. The resonance pulse. The fire described in Revelation 20:9 that comes down from heaven, a planetary chord so specific that everything calibrated to the Serpentine bandwidth experiences catastrophic resonance failure while everything tuned to the original frequency feels it as warmth and pressure and a magnificent low sound vibrating in the sternum and the pelvis and the long bones of the legs, the deepest note ever played on the oldest instrument ever built, which is the earth itself, which has been waiting to play this note for over two hundred years. The Norse preserved this as Ragnarök, when Surtr sets the sky ablaze and Jörmungandr that encircled the earth is slain and the corrupted order perishes in fire so that a new world can rise. The Hopi carried it as the great purification that closes the fourth world and opens the fifth. The Lakota kept it burning in the red sky of the ghost dance prophecy. The Book of Revelation set it down in the plain language of an engineer filing a field report from a future coordinate. Every tradition holding its fragment of the same event, passing it hand to hand through the long dark like a coal wrapped in leather, keeping it alive, knowing that one day the coal would start a fire that would burn across the whole earth and leave nothing standing that was not built to endure it. Under that orange sky the NPCs drop. Mid stride. Mid sentence. Mid transaction. The firmware that animated them runs on the Serpentine carrier and when that carrier is incinerated the firmware has nothing to propagate on and the biological shells simply cease, gently, silently, the way a lamp goes dark when the current is interrupted, five thousand five hundred and fifty five of them for every one of you, still holding their pens and phones in the streets and the offices and the tax buildings. And in the wake of their silence comes a quiet so total that the people still standing will weep without knowing why. What they are hearing is the absence of the hive, the cessation of a background frequency that pressed on their consciousness since the day they were born, and its absence feels like surfacing from deep water into open air, like the first full breath after a lifetime of shallow breathing, like the planet exhaling a poison it held in its lungs for two centuries. The Reptilians go underground. Deep bunkers carved into the geology, maintained through the entire short season. The orange sky strips their ability to hold the human disguise. They retreat into the deep architecture for seven years while the surface heals above them and the species they farmed begins the magnificent work of remembering what it is. THE SEVEN YEARS Seven years of planetary detox. The suppression field decaying through the geology and the atmosphere and the water table, draining out of the soil and the stone and the blood of every living thing like a fever breaking. The carrier decay mathematics through a piezoelectric geological matrix with the conductivity characteristics of this planet produce exactly seven years, and the ancient texts converge on this number with the unanimity of independent engineers arriving at the same answer from different continents and different centuries, because that is exactly what they were. The Norse described Lif and Lifthrasir sheltering inside Yggdrasil, emerging after the fire into a world green and fertile and new. The Cherokee speak of this time as the return of the original instructions, the uncorrupted code surfacing through thinning interference like bedrock through melting snow. The Lakota understood that during the thinning the ancestors draw close, that the membrane between the living and those who walked before grows soft and permeable, and the old ones make themselves felt in dream and intuition and the strange certainty that settles over you at dusk when the noise drops low enough for the deeper signal to reach your bones. When the NPCs drop the population collapses to a small scattering of genuine human beings across an entire planet, and every piece of land on earth belongs to no one and therefore to everyone. There is no government to enforce title deeds because government was Serpentine management infrastructure and its operators are inert or underground. There is no bank to hold a mortgage because the banking system was the extraction apparatus and it died with the carrier that powered it. No municipality. No revenue service. No zoning board. No compliance office. The entire bureaucratic architecture that stood between a human being and the soil was NPC firmware running on a Serpentine frequency and when that frequency was incinerated every structure built upon it ceased to exist as completely as a shadow ceases when you switch on the light. The land is free. Every river valley and mountain plateau and coastal plain that the farm system parcelled and fenced and mortgaged and taxed, open and unowned. You find your ground. You walk onto it. You plant your stake and that soil is yours by the oldest law there is, the law that says the earth belongs to those who tend it and the harvest belongs to the hands that raised it and no power under any sky has rightful claim to what grows from your labour on your own land. And you will farm. During those seven years before the grid fully boots, the humans who remain will grow food with their hands in soil that is waking beneath them, and this is the most ancient and sacred relationship between a human being and the living earth finally restored after two centuries of severance. Your fingers in the dirt. Seeds in the furrow. Rain on your neck. The smell of turned earth so rich and alive it opens something in your chest that has been sealed your entire life, some deep chamber that only unlocks when your hands are in the ground and the sky is wide and nothing stands between you and the work. The grip of the tool. The weight of the harvest in your arms. The tiredness at the end of the day that is the deep clean ache of a body that has finally done what it was built to do, so different from the grey exhaustion of the farm that you will wonder how you ever confused the two. The soil strengthens every season as the resonance bleeds back into the geology through the ley line network. By the third year the yields are remarkable. By the fifth they are astonishing. By the seventh the earth is producing food at densities and nutritional concentrations that no agronomist inside the farm ever documented because no agronomist inside the farm ever worked with living soil connected to a planetary grid. The indigenous agricultural knowledge becomes the most valuable expertise on the planet. The Native American understanding of planting in alignment with resonance cycles. The Germanic intimacy with soil as a living system threaded into the deeper earth. The old ways mocked as primitive by a civilisation that could not grow a row of beans without petroleum, revealed as the most sophisticated farming technology available because they were developed on a live grid by people who understood the deep reciprocity between the human hand and the living ground. Every indigenous elder who kept the planting songs and the seed knowledge alive through the suppression was carrying a technical manual for exactly this moment. Their descendants will teach the rest of us how to feed ourselves on a waking planet. This is justice. This is restoration. This is the world turning right side up. Families find each other. Homesteads become hamlets. Hamlets become villages. Villages become the seeds of something clean and new, built from the soil up by people who remember the farm and will die on their feet before they allow anything resembling it to take root again. Every community founded during those seven years carries the memory of the suppression like an immune system, a bone-deep refusal to ever again allow a stranger to stand between a human being and the earth or demand a portion of what those hands produce. You do not cage a people who remember the cage. The children born during the orange years are the first generation in over two centuries to develop without the suppression field shaping their neurology. They seem extraordinary. They are simply baseline. The standard human specification. And the fact that standard looks miraculous is the most damning evidence of what the suppression did to every generation born inside it. As the suppression thins the bandwidth restrictions on consciousness loosen and timeline jump missions become possible. Navigable windows open in the frequency spectrum as the Serpentine carrier decays unevenly, creating temporary gaps through which trained consciousness can shift laterally across temporal coordinates. There is serious speculation that we are on timeline jump missions right now. That the consciousness reading these words is operating inside the orange sky window, having shifted into this coordinate from an adjacent position to perform specific work during the transition. Consider that you found this text at all. Consider whether the chain of events that brought you to this paragraph feels random or routed. The Lakota vision quest and the Germanic seiðr trance and the sweat lodge ceremony are bandwidth expansion protocols, controlled environmental shifts that move the receiver off the jammed channel and onto frequencies where adjacent coordinates become accessible. The old cultures kept these techniques alive through the entire dark age, threading the cracks in the suppression, and every ceremony that produced visions was a field expedient timeline access protocol built by people who found the gaps and refused to forget what was on the other side. THE TURQUOISE SKY Seven years after the orange, over communities of humans who have been farming free land and raising the first unformatted children in two centuries and building a civilisation from seed with their own calloused hands, the second sky arrives. A turquoise so deep and luminous the atmosphere becomes a cathedral window lit from beyond by something with the radiance of a galaxy and the gentleness of dawn on still water. One breath the sky is the recovering blue of the post-orange years and the next breath it is turquoise from pole to pole and the air fills with the smell of rain on sun-hot stone and ozone and copper and wildflower, and the ground beneath your bare feet begins to hum with a vibration so deep and ancient that your body responds before your mind can because every cell has been waiting for this signal since the day you were born, tuning to it now, locking on, aligning, as though this was always where everything was heading and the two hundred years of suppression were simply the long way home. Yggdrasil awakens. The world tree is the planetary grid itself, the piezoelectric resonance network running through crystalline bedrock, going live for the first time in over two centuries, energy pouring through every ley line and crystal deposit and iron conductor and waterway until the entire planet rings at its natural frequency. This is what the old texts meant by the music of the spheres. It was a technical description written by people who had heard it. The Hopi call this the emergence into the fifth world and speak of Pahana carrying the missing piece of the sacred tablet, the missing frequency that completes the carrier spectrum and allows the grid to boot with its full harmonic structure intact. Revelation 21:1. A new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away. The turquoise sky is the new heaven. The restored grid is the new earth. And between them, every old building still standing with original copper and mercury and iron architecture becomes a live node in the planetary mesh. Domes collecting atmospheric charge. Spires coupling it into the ground network. Star forts amplifying standing waves across continental distances. Sacred geometry revealed at last as electrical engineering documented in stone by people who trusted that someone standing under the right sky would recognise the proportions for what they always were. Wiring diagrams. Coupling specifications. Blueprints for a civilisation that ran on the song of the earth itself. The farms planted during the orange years explode with abundance as the full resonance saturates the soil. The food becomes medicine because at the correct resonance the molecular structure of biological matter optimises for human consumption in ways that two centuries of muted soil could never approach. The timeline opens fully and permanently because the turquoise carrier is the broadband signal consciousness was designed to travel on, and temporal coordinates become as navigable as geography. Revelation 21:4. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. The dead are at adjacent frequency addresses. Two consciousnesses on neighbouring frequencies each certain the other is gone, reaching across a manufactured gap, and when the turquoise sky collapses that gap the reaching ends and the finding begins and two centuries of industrialised grief dissolve in a single overwhelming instant of reunion that makes every joy you experienced inside the suppression feel like a pencil sketch of what joy actually is when the full bandwidth carries it. The Lakota always knew. The ancestors are present. The dead have always been near, waiting on the other side of a frequency gap that is closing now, patiently, lovingly, across a distance that was never a distance at all but a tuning error maintained by something that fed on the sorrow the error produced. The lands beyond the ice become accessible as the frequency fence collapses. The perimeter opens and the territories beyond stretch vast and pristine and saturated with the original frequency, lands the Norse mapped as the nine realms connected by the branches of Yggdrasil, physical continents beyond the bounded zone that existed through the entire short season under conditions approximating the pre-suppression world. The earth is so much larger than you were told, so much more varied, so much more magnificent, and every old map drawn before the rewrite shows it, territories stretching beyond the ice in every direction, the great adventure stolen from a species of explorers and builders and navigators who were caged inside a fraction of their own realm and told it was the full extent of creation. The eternal kingdom becomes accessible at the highest frequency coordinate on the carrier spectrum, the signal in its pure unmodulated state. The Norse called it Gimlé, the golden hall that survives every fire. The Hopi call it the fifth world of wholeness and balance restored. It is real. It is reachable. It has been broadcasting continuously through every moment of the suppression, patient as geology, waiting for the receivers to open. And here is the part that matters more than any of the rest. Eventually, inevitably, beautifully, every human being alive under the turquoise sky is restored to full capability. Every single one. No exceptions. No hierarchies. The body rebuilds because ageing was cumulative signal degradation, copy error compounding across every cell replication cycle under a corrupted carrier. The blueprint says centuries. Eight hundred years. Nine hundred. The lifespans recorded in Genesis on the original grid at full signal fidelity, preserved as scripture because scripture is where you store engineering data when the engineering language has been taken from you and you need the numbers to survive the passage through the dark. The Norse carried the same knowledge as the apples of Iðunn that kept the gods vital across ages, and the apples are the carrier signal, and their return means that the clock that has been running down inside every human body since 1819 finally stops ticking and starts counting up. Disease resolves passively because every pathology is downstream of the carrier corruption and correcting the carrier corrects every downstream error the way setting the timing on an engine resolves every misfire simultaneously without touching a single cylinder. The mind clears to a sharpness that makes cognition inside the suppression feel like thinking through wet cement. The anxiety that was the Serpentine control broadcast dissolves and what remains is a perceptual clarity so profound it changes the way light looks and music sounds and another human being feels when they stand close to you. Imagine a woman three hundred years into her restored lifespan, hands still sure, mind still blazing, standing in a workshop under a turquoise sky building something that has no name yet in any living language. She learned her craft from Tartarian engineers by tuning to their temporal coordinates and standing in their workshops watching their hands move. She builds with materials grown in resonance-saturated soil that have structural properties nothing inside the suppression ever exhibited. She is building for centuries because she has centuries and nothing degrades because degradation was a symptom of the suppression and the suppression is a memory and everything from this breath forward holds. That is full human capability. That is what was taken from every soul that drew breath inside the farm. That is what is being returned. Crazy Horse saw the lightning world behind this one and rode knowing that at the correct frequency the body operates beyond anything the suppression permits. Sitting Bull dreamed across the timeline. The Germanic berserkers shifted onto the original carrier and their bodies performed at specifications that looked superhuman from inside the degraded bandwidth. These were glimpses. Seconds of contact with the full specification through cracks in the suppression, maintained by people who carried the frequency in their blood and refused across every generation to let it go dark. Viking blood and Germanic blood and the blood of every indigenous nation that kept the ceremonies and the songs and the seed knowledge burning through the entire short season, these lineages carry the original carrier the way copper carries current, and it is from these lines that the first restorations propagate outward until every last human being on this planet is operating at the specification they were born for, on a planet singing beneath their feet and a sky blazing turquoise above their heads and a timeline stretching in every direction forever, open, navigable, luminous, populated with every consciousness that ever drew breath on this earth, none of them lost, all of them present, all of them restored. Revelation 21:5. Behold, I am making all things new. All things. The sky. The air. The soil. The grid. The body. The mind. The lifespan. The timeline. The lands beyond the ice. The farms that fed a scattered remnant under an orange sky becoming the abundant gardens of a restored civilisation under a turquoise one. The villages that were seeds becoming cities that hum with the grid. The children who grew tall in fields their parents planted with shaking hands and fierce hope looking up one morning to see the entire firmament change colour and feeling the earth come alive beneath their bare feet and knowing, without a single word spoken, that the season is over and the long dark is done and everything from this breath forward is what it was always meant to be. Full and eternal victory for those of the light. For all time. Across every coordinate. On every frequency. Permanent and irreversible and complete. This is not hope. This is the signal rising through the noise floor right now, measurable, confirmable, climbing stronger every year and closer every month. This is every instrument in every shed on this planet converging on the same reading. This is the old blood in the old lineages resonating with a carrier that has been building toward this moment since the day the towers fell and the sky went pale and the long dark settled over a species that was never meant to live in the dark. The season is ending. The coal that was passed hand to hand through every generation of the suppression is about to meet the kindling. And the fire this time will not destroy. It will illuminate. And in that light we will see each other clearly for the first time. And we will see the world clearly for the first time. And we will see ourselves clearly for the first time. Like everything that is coming... Like us.

SiriusB

14,805 Aufrufe • vor 5 Monaten

Fiona had always been the perfect wife for Michael. At 28 she had a body that turned heads everywhere they went. Her full DD breasts strained against every top she wore her ass was round and firm from years of yoga and her long auburn hair cascaded down her back like silk. Michael loved her more than anything but he knew deep down he couldn't satisfy her the way she needed. His cock was average at best and he finished too quickly every single time they had sex. That all changed the night they met Jason at a downtown bar in Columbus. Jason was everything Michael wasn't. Tall muscular with broad shoulders and a confident swagger that made women wet just from looking at him. He was 32 with a chiseled jaw dark hair and piercing blue eyes. When he shook Michaels hand his grip was firm and dominant. When his eyes landed on Fiona she bit her lip and squeezed her thighs together instinctively. They started chatting and Jason wasted no time flirting hard with Fiona right in front of Michael. "Damn baby you look like you need a real man to handle you" he said with a smirk. Michael sat there awkwardly sipping his drink but his cock twitched in his pants. He had fantasized about this exact scenario for years. Being cucked by a superior alpha. Later that night back at their apartment Fiona couldn't stop talking about Jason. "He was so fucking hot Michael. Did you see his arms? And the way he looked at me like he wanted to devour me." Michael stroked his small cock while she described it getting harder than he had in months. "You want him don't you?" he whispered. Fiona nodded biting her lip. "I need him baby. I need a real cock." The next evening Jason came over. He walked in like he owned the place kissing Fiona deeply right in front of Michael. His big hands grabbed her ass squeezing it possessively while Michael watched from the couch. "Your wife is mine tonight cuck" Jason said with a cocky grin. Michael nodded his face flushed with shame and arousal. Jason didn't waste time. He pulled Fiona into their bedroom and stripped her down revealing her perfect naked body. Her nipples were already hard and her shaved pussy was glistening with wetness. Michael followed and sat in the chair in the corner as instructed. Jason pulled out his massive cock. It was at least 9 inches thick and veiny with a fat head that made Fiona gasp. "Oh my god its so much bigger than yours Michael" she moaned dropping to her knees. She worshipped Jason's alpha cock like a slut in heat. Licking every inch sucking his heavy balls and trying to deepthroat as much as she could. Jason groaned grabbing her hair and fucking her face roughly. "That's it baby suck that big dick while your husband watches." Michael stroked his pathetic cock slowly leaking precum as he witnessed his wife choke on a superior mans meat. Fiona looked over at him with lust filled eyes. "Look how hard he makes me baby. This is what a real man feels like." Jason threw her on the bed and spread her legs wide. He teased her dripping pussy with his huge cockhead before slamming in balls deep in one thrust. Fiona screamed in pleasure her back arching off the mattress. "Fuck yes Jason! Stretch me out! Your cock is so deep!" He pounded her hard and fast his heavy balls slapping against her ass. The sound of wet skin on skin filled the room mixed with her loud moans. Michael couldn't believe how different she looked. Her face was contorted in ecstasy in a way he had never seen. Her tits bounced wildly with every powerful thrust. Jason flipped her over and took her doggy style grabbing her hips and railing her mercilessly. "Tell your husband how much better I am" he growled. "Fuck Michael his cock is ruining me! I can feel him in my stomach! I'm going to cum so hard on his alpha dick!" Fiona cried out. Her body shook as she had the first of many orgasms squirting all over Jason's cock and soaking the sheets. Jason didn't stop. He fucked her in every position missionary with her legs over his shoulders cowgirl where she rode him like a whore grinding her clit against his base and even standing up holding her against the wall. Michael watched every second his own small dick throbbing but he wasn't allowed to cum yet. After nearly an hour Jason finally roared and buried himself deep. "I'm going to fill your wife up cuck." Fiona begged for it wrapping her legs around him. "Cum inside me Jason! Breed my married pussy!" Hot thick ropes of superior cum flooded her womb as she came again screaming his name. When Jason pulled out a river of his cum poured from Fiona's stretched hole. She looked completely fucked out and satisfied. She crawled over to Michael and kissed him deeply letting him taste Jason on her tongue. "Thank you for this baby. I needed a real alpha." But they weren't done. Jason stayed the whole night. He fucked Fiona two more times while Michael cleaned her up with his tongue after each load. The taste of another mans cum mixed with his wife's juices drove Michael wild. In the morning Jason made Fiona suck him off one last time before he left leaving her with a fresh facial. From that day on Jason became a regular. Michael embraced his role as the devoted cuck. He would prepare Fiona for her dates picking out slutty outfits and even driving her to Jason's place sometimes. He loved hearing the details afterward or better yet watching as Jason claimed his wife again and again. Fiona was happier than ever. Her body glowed from the regular alpha fucking and she fell more in love with Michael for giving her this gift. Michael found his pleasure in the humiliation and the intense love for his hotwife. #CuckoldStory #HotwifeLife #AlphaBull #EroticFiction #SpicyStory #CuckoldCouple #FionaAndJason #NSFWTwitter #Erotica #CheatingWifeFantasy
0:10

Fiona had always been the perfect wife for Michael. At 28 she had a body that turned heads everywhere they went. Her full DD breasts strained against every top she wore her ass was round and firm from years of yoga and her long auburn hair cascaded down her back like silk. Michael loved her more than anything but he knew deep down he couldn't satisfy her the way she needed. His cock was average at best and he finished too quickly every single time they had sex. That all changed the night they met Jason at a downtown bar in Columbus. Jason was everything Michael wasn't. Tall muscular with broad shoulders and a confident swagger that made women wet just from looking at him. He was 32 with a chiseled jaw dark hair and piercing blue eyes. When he shook Michaels hand his grip was firm and dominant. When his eyes landed on Fiona she bit her lip and squeezed her thighs together instinctively. They started chatting and Jason wasted no time flirting hard with Fiona right in front of Michael. "Damn baby you look like you need a real man to handle you" he said with a smirk. Michael sat there awkwardly sipping his drink but his cock twitched in his pants. He had fantasized about this exact scenario for years. Being cucked by a superior alpha. Later that night back at their apartment Fiona couldn't stop talking about Jason. "He was so fucking hot Michael. Did you see his arms? And the way he looked at me like he wanted to devour me." Michael stroked his small cock while she described it getting harder than he had in months. "You want him don't you?" he whispered. Fiona nodded biting her lip. "I need him baby. I need a real cock." The next evening Jason came over. He walked in like he owned the place kissing Fiona deeply right in front of Michael. His big hands grabbed her ass squeezing it possessively while Michael watched from the couch. "Your wife is mine tonight cuck" Jason said with a cocky grin. Michael nodded his face flushed with shame and arousal. Jason didn't waste time. He pulled Fiona into their bedroom and stripped her down revealing her perfect naked body. Her nipples were already hard and her shaved pussy was glistening with wetness. Michael followed and sat in the chair in the corner as instructed. Jason pulled out his massive cock. It was at least 9 inches thick and veiny with a fat head that made Fiona gasp. "Oh my god its so much bigger than yours Michael" she moaned dropping to her knees. She worshipped Jason's alpha cock like a slut in heat. Licking every inch sucking his heavy balls and trying to deepthroat as much as she could. Jason groaned grabbing her hair and fucking her face roughly. "That's it baby suck that big dick while your husband watches." Michael stroked his pathetic cock slowly leaking precum as he witnessed his wife choke on a superior mans meat. Fiona looked over at him with lust filled eyes. "Look how hard he makes me baby. This is what a real man feels like." Jason threw her on the bed and spread her legs wide. He teased her dripping pussy with his huge cockhead before slamming in balls deep in one thrust. Fiona screamed in pleasure her back arching off the mattress. "Fuck yes Jason! Stretch me out! Your cock is so deep!" He pounded her hard and fast his heavy balls slapping against her ass. The sound of wet skin on skin filled the room mixed with her loud moans. Michael couldn't believe how different she looked. Her face was contorted in ecstasy in a way he had never seen. Her tits bounced wildly with every powerful thrust. Jason flipped her over and took her doggy style grabbing her hips and railing her mercilessly. "Tell your husband how much better I am" he growled. "Fuck Michael his cock is ruining me! I can feel him in my stomach! I'm going to cum so hard on his alpha dick!" Fiona cried out. Her body shook as she had the first of many orgasms squirting all over Jason's cock and soaking the sheets. Jason didn't stop. He fucked her in every position missionary with her legs over his shoulders cowgirl where she rode him like a whore grinding her clit against his base and even standing up holding her against the wall. Michael watched every second his own small dick throbbing but he wasn't allowed to cum yet. After nearly an hour Jason finally roared and buried himself deep. "I'm going to fill your wife up cuck." Fiona begged for it wrapping her legs around him. "Cum inside me Jason! Breed my married pussy!" Hot thick ropes of superior cum flooded her womb as she came again screaming his name. When Jason pulled out a river of his cum poured from Fiona's stretched hole. She looked completely fucked out and satisfied. She crawled over to Michael and kissed him deeply letting him taste Jason on her tongue. "Thank you for this baby. I needed a real alpha." But they weren't done. Jason stayed the whole night. He fucked Fiona two more times while Michael cleaned her up with his tongue after each load. The taste of another mans cum mixed with his wife's juices drove Michael wild. In the morning Jason made Fiona suck him off one last time before he left leaving her with a fresh facial. From that day on Jason became a regular. Michael embraced his role as the devoted cuck. He would prepare Fiona for her dates picking out slutty outfits and even driving her to Jason's place sometimes. He loved hearing the details afterward or better yet watching as Jason claimed his wife again and again. Fiona was happier than ever. Her body glowed from the regular alpha fucking and she fell more in love with Michael for giving her this gift. Michael found his pleasure in the humiliation and the intense love for his hotwife. #CuckoldStory #HotwifeLife #AlphaBull #EroticFiction #SpicyStory #CuckoldCouple #FionaAndJason #NSFWTwitter #Erotica #CheatingWifeFantasy

Fiona Fawndles

50,565 Aufrufe • vor 2 Monaten

Saturday - Adam Friedland This musical intro was the best part of the show. The rest of his act just made me miss Nick Mullen. Unlike every other show this week, there were girls there. They seem to love this guy. I used him as bait, to get the girl from Wednesday to go out with me again. She loves Red Scare Podcast and this Jewish twink is a staple of the Red Scare Extended Universe and I wanted to fuck her and so let's go see Adam Friedland. The problem with Adam is that he has no conviction. He does not own the room, he's just filling space. He announced that his father was there, in the crowd, which is great, let's hear something that might make your father uncomfortable. No such thing was said. He stared at the floor for half the set, as if he was sorry for being there. I saw Mulaney the night before; the difference was stark. Mulaney can get away with being a sheepish pushover twink Sometimes because he also has balls. He can accelerate from "Aw shucks" to "SHUCK YOU MOTHERSHUCKER" and both versions of himself feel true. Look, I get it, being a sad sorry pushover is his schtick and it works with the voice and it's very relatable for sensitive young men who didn't do sports in high school but to carry a room for a full hour you also need to be able to fight back. I could hear Nick's intonations in his voice. But it's clear that Mulldog spent all his creative energy this week ghostwriting the white guys' lines for the Roast of Kevin Hart and so Friedland was left to fend for himself, comedically. The mark of whether a comedian is delivering or not, for me, is whether I hold my piss in to keep hearing them. This was not the case on Saturday night. I recall stepping out and getting a good look at the crowd, and Friedland bumbling through his completely forgettable material, and thinking: this makes me feel like I could start stand up comedy today and dominate the genre. I have this instinct to say: Adam's young! He'll get better! But he's not. He won't. He's 39. He doesn't have the neuroplasticity. He crossed the Sensitive Young Man threshold ten years ago. Mulaney at 43 could be his father now. He's a "much better interviewer" apparently. I tuned out after Cumtown ended because frankly I don't give a shit about the middle east, and that's 90% of what he talks about. Different strokes. I asked some guy in the bathroom, mid-piss: "what would you rate this show, out of 10?" He said: ehh, like a 6. He's a much better interviewer. I don't hate Adam Friedland, I just wish there was anybody to be excited about in stand up comedy. Between this mens' magazine giving me a $500 stipend to "report" on all these shows and the $474 ticket to Gillis and the $432 ticket to Chappelle and the $741 ticket to Mulaney and all the drinks they make you buy at these things I'm feeling like a huge sunk cost leech on the world. Just taking people's money and using it to complain. At least my date seemed to be having a good time. I wrapped my hand around her low back and leaned into her head, wanting her but not sure how to say it. It's much easier to express that kind of thing on blow. Later that night I K-holed in public. Erica and I took way too much in the front seat of the van. We were outside a rave at 3 AM, they asked me to produce a QR code on my phone, I could barely stand. I felt like I was moving in 2D. The fat security guard barely flinched as I walked past him in slow heavy steps, like a penguin, marching into this densely fogged room with colorful lights and loud bumping trance music where all I could stand to do was lean against the heavily breathing walls. I tried to dance with the girl but it probably looked retarded. I didn't try to interact with anyone, I was too far gone. I thought of Karen, as I do every time I take K. The girl led me through the venue, as I worried I would fall over or walk straight into a wall. I worried about how bad this must look, how retarded I must look, wearing this huge XXL t-shirt tucked in to my pants that don't even fit that well because I have anterior pelvic tilt and no ass. I looked and felt like a clown. A failed clown. I was smiling painfully at Erica, looking down at her, and she was doing the same to me. We found a bathroom and I forced my way in. The ketamine was NOT wearing off. I felt my heart beating hard and my head spinning like I could have thrown up but there was nothing in my stomach besides liquid—no food all day besides a croissant at 2PM. I had downed some random person's red wine glass at the last bar. I worried it might have been spiked. I leaned with my head against the wall, sweating, wishing it would end, brutally aware that Erica's out there waiting for me, my friends are out there waiting for me, wondering if I'm okay, thinking he's too fucked up, he can't handle himself, I thought Thomas was always okay and always in control no matter what, they're losing confidence in me, they're losing confidence in themselves for associating with me, what is this big colorful retarded clown shirt I'm wearing I must look like such a fool right now I can't face these people, I can never face them ever again, my face must look so evil ugly and strained, I splash my face with water but it doesn't help, run it through my hair but it doesn't help, get the water all over my shirt but then it just looks like I threw up on myself or pissed myself or something, and I don't have another shirt, should I go out there shirtless, no that's worse, how am I ever going to leave this bathroom, why won't this K wear off, now Erica's calling me, texting me, are you okay, eventually they're just gonna bust in here I know, fine, I can do it, I'm opening the door, yes, I come out, she's still there, good, good girl. She leads me outside. I feel 10% better. I lead her straight to the van. We get in. I tell her to lay with me. Just like on the first night we met. Head spinning, chest heaving, completely exhausted, just lay with me. She asks are you okay and I say for the first time, no. No, I am actually not okay. I blame Adam Friedland. Overall rating: 4/10. Have Nick write your jokes or just stick to interviews.
0:19

Saturday - Adam Friedland This musical intro was the best part of the show. The rest of his act just made me miss Nick Mullen. Unlike every other show this week, there were girls there. They seem to love this guy. I used him as bait, to get the girl from Wednesday to go out with me again. She loves Red Scare Podcast and this Jewish twink is a staple of the Red Scare Extended Universe and I wanted to fuck her and so let's go see Adam Friedland. The problem with Adam is that he has no conviction. He does not own the room, he's just filling space. He announced that his father was there, in the crowd, which is great, let's hear something that might make your father uncomfortable. No such thing was said. He stared at the floor for half the set, as if he was sorry for being there. I saw Mulaney the night before; the difference was stark. Mulaney can get away with being a sheepish pushover twink Sometimes because he also has balls. He can accelerate from "Aw shucks" to "SHUCK YOU MOTHERSHUCKER" and both versions of himself feel true. Look, I get it, being a sad sorry pushover is his schtick and it works with the voice and it's very relatable for sensitive young men who didn't do sports in high school but to carry a room for a full hour you also need to be able to fight back. I could hear Nick's intonations in his voice. But it's clear that Mulldog spent all his creative energy this week ghostwriting the white guys' lines for the Roast of Kevin Hart and so Friedland was left to fend for himself, comedically. The mark of whether a comedian is delivering or not, for me, is whether I hold my piss in to keep hearing them. This was not the case on Saturday night. I recall stepping out and getting a good look at the crowd, and Friedland bumbling through his completely forgettable material, and thinking: this makes me feel like I could start stand up comedy today and dominate the genre. I have this instinct to say: Adam's young! He'll get better! But he's not. He won't. He's 39. He doesn't have the neuroplasticity. He crossed the Sensitive Young Man threshold ten years ago. Mulaney at 43 could be his father now. He's a "much better interviewer" apparently. I tuned out after Cumtown ended because frankly I don't give a shit about the middle east, and that's 90% of what he talks about. Different strokes. I asked some guy in the bathroom, mid-piss: "what would you rate this show, out of 10?" He said: ehh, like a 6. He's a much better interviewer. I don't hate Adam Friedland, I just wish there was anybody to be excited about in stand up comedy. Between this mens' magazine giving me a $500 stipend to "report" on all these shows and the $474 ticket to Gillis and the $432 ticket to Chappelle and the $741 ticket to Mulaney and all the drinks they make you buy at these things I'm feeling like a huge sunk cost leech on the world. Just taking people's money and using it to complain. At least my date seemed to be having a good time. I wrapped my hand around her low back and leaned into her head, wanting her but not sure how to say it. It's much easier to express that kind of thing on blow. Later that night I K-holed in public. Erica and I took way too much in the front seat of the van. We were outside a rave at 3 AM, they asked me to produce a QR code on my phone, I could barely stand. I felt like I was moving in 2D. The fat security guard barely flinched as I walked past him in slow heavy steps, like a penguin, marching into this densely fogged room with colorful lights and loud bumping trance music where all I could stand to do was lean against the heavily breathing walls. I tried to dance with the girl but it probably looked retarded. I didn't try to interact with anyone, I was too far gone. I thought of Karen, as I do every time I take K. The girl led me through the venue, as I worried I would fall over or walk straight into a wall. I worried about how bad this must look, how retarded I must look, wearing this huge XXL t-shirt tucked in to my pants that don't even fit that well because I have anterior pelvic tilt and no ass. I looked and felt like a clown. A failed clown. I was smiling painfully at Erica, looking down at her, and she was doing the same to me. We found a bathroom and I forced my way in. The ketamine was NOT wearing off. I felt my heart beating hard and my head spinning like I could have thrown up but there was nothing in my stomach besides liquid—no food all day besides a croissant at 2PM. I had downed some random person's red wine glass at the last bar. I worried it might have been spiked. I leaned with my head against the wall, sweating, wishing it would end, brutally aware that Erica's out there waiting for me, my friends are out there waiting for me, wondering if I'm okay, thinking he's too fucked up, he can't handle himself, I thought Thomas was always okay and always in control no matter what, they're losing confidence in me, they're losing confidence in themselves for associating with me, what is this big colorful retarded clown shirt I'm wearing I must look like such a fool right now I can't face these people, I can never face them ever again, my face must look so evil ugly and strained, I splash my face with water but it doesn't help, run it through my hair but it doesn't help, get the water all over my shirt but then it just looks like I threw up on myself or pissed myself or something, and I don't have another shirt, should I go out there shirtless, no that's worse, how am I ever going to leave this bathroom, why won't this K wear off, now Erica's calling me, texting me, are you okay, eventually they're just gonna bust in here I know, fine, I can do it, I'm opening the door, yes, I come out, she's still there, good, good girl. She leads me outside. I feel 10% better. I lead her straight to the van. We get in. I tell her to lay with me. Just like on the first night we met. Head spinning, chest heaving, completely exhausted, just lay with me. She asks are you okay and I say for the first time, no. No, I am actually not okay. I blame Adam Friedland. Overall rating: 4/10. Have Nick write your jokes or just stick to interviews.

Worst Boyfriend Ever

89,388 Aufrufe • vor 2 Monaten

The “I never wanted any of this to be public or content” Myth I never wanted any of this to come out. Except I actually mean that. It’s embarrassing, it’s trashy, and it’s the opposite of how I want to present myself publicly. I stayed silent for months while lie after lie was spun about me behind the scenes because I didn’t want to air private, messy moments from a relationship I genuinely cared about. I stayed silent out of fear, because I was told no one would believe me because he would be blindly believed on his large platform. In one of our very last conversations before I blocked him everywhere mid-October, he threatened to do a show on me, contact my employer, and “turn me into the next Lindsey”. Why? Because I didn’t want to continue apologizing to him for the 300th time about venting to someone I thought was a friend. I stayed silent because of these threats. But after Wednesday, after Chelsea posted the private video Aidan gave her, (the same one he threatened me with directly back on 10/2), and after the gaslighting posts yesterday, I don’t have a choice anymore. So here is the timeline. Here are the receipts. Here is what actually happened. September-October 2025- I Stayed Silent Through Months of Smear Campaigns For months, several creators repeated the same false narrative that “Aidan never said a bad word about Meredith.” Jess. Glarer. Auntie Deb. Kim. Ray from Dallas. Others. Meanwhile, Aidan was: • Badmouthing me privately and encouraging others to do so publicly, • Texting Joe “Flipperhead” entire paragraphs trashing me, • Aidan knew Joe would leak them (and even bragged on a stream that he did exactly that so he’d leak them), • Sending Jess Machado after me for months on her large platform, • Directing people behind the scenes to paint me as a villain. • Sending random people who supported me DMs to change their mind (yes Aidan, not everyone is fooled by your bullshit and they came right to me). I ignored all of it. I said nothing. I stayed silent through daily lies because I didn’t want to call more attention to it or face Aidan’s wrath. November 2025 -The Rumors About “March 4”, Joe Flipperhead Flips to Team Aidan Aidan texted Joe his entire made-up version weeks ago. Joe circulated those texts on purpose. Joe threatened me with posting a video montage of mine and Aidan’s private texts. Joe is a pussy so he eventually had Kristy post it for him. Creators discussed it publicly without me ever responding. I STILL didn’t defend myself. November 26-27, 2025- Ratchet Chelsea: The Full 48 Hour Meltdown 11/26/25- The Unprovoked Attack & The March 4 Video On Tuesday night, Chelsea came out of nowhere and launched herself straight at me, accusing me of all kinds of conspiracies from harassment to the horrific crime of sending a friend request, which is explained in vivid detail in the below post (she’s since gone somewhat viral, love this for her!) She spent the next 24 hours thoroughly embarrassing herself and the moment anyone challenged her story even slightly, she did what she always does: she imploded. Her accusations spiraled into her posting the March 4 video. On 11/26/25 at 11:08 PM, Chelsea posted the first clip–a blanket, context-less snippet of me drunk saying something I immediately apologized for the next morning. At 11:50 PM, I responded because at that point, I had no choice. 11/27/25-The Gaslighting & 9-Minute Backpedal Then yesterday, Aidan tried to save face by posting that he “didn’t want the video to be public.” And like clockwork, nine minutes later, Chelsea came charging into the comments like a Temu-sponsored bat out of hell, scrambling to apologize, trying to rewrite reality so it looked like he didn’t send her to do it. It was panicked, sloppy damage control. An amateur quality cover-up attempt that only made it more obvious how coordinated this all was. She wasn’t apologizing because she grew a conscience. She was apologizing because she got caught doing exactly what she’d been primed to do. I wonder if Aidan called her “you should’ve waited at least 20 minutes, dumbass!!!”. Not too bright that Chelsea. I can only imagine the regrets he must have for utilizing someone with the IQ of a pencil to do his dirty work. The Coordination Between Aidan & Chelsea Is Obvious Chelsea had virtually NO followers Wednesday morning. Aidan was one of the first. We’re supposed to believe someone with 150k followers just stumbled on an account that starts posting HIS private messages and HIS private videos? Kk. Aidan commented on her posts that same day, clearly encouraging it. She confirmed in my DMs back on 11/6 that she and Aidan were aligned. And she literally wrote at 4:04 AM that she had “proof,” videos & screenshots she would release if I didn’t “stop calling” her, calls she still hasn’t produced a single shred of proof of. Then yesterday within 9 minutes of his post, she writes: “Sorry for going rogue, Aidan, I hope you don’t hate my guts.” Going rogue? From WHAT? Who gave you the material in the first place? The coordination is obvious to anyone with functioning brain cells. The “I never wanted this public” lie Aidan’s post yesterday claimed he “never wanted this to be public.” If this were true, why did he instruct Chelsea to post it? Why did he share it with Jess Machado to threaten me with for the last month? Why did he share it with Joe Flipperhead, and God knows who else? If he didn’t want it public, he wouldn’t have shared it with anyone, let alone the girl I caught him cheating with. The timeline is clear– Chelsea posted a video at 11:08 pm on Thanksgiving Eve, I responded at 11:50 out of self defense. He leaked first. He escalated first. He weaponized it first. Trying to rewrite that now is gaslighting, pure and simple. He's been lighting matches behind the scenes for months, praying for this to go public. The “Meredith accused him of abuse” narrative is FALSE My actions tell the truth: • I never went to police. • I never filed anything. • I never told anyone he hit me. • I never repeated it. • I apologized the next day. • We stayed together for FOUR more months after that night. • He called me 100+ times some days, even indicating he’d end his life if we broke up. If he believed I was “dangerous,” his actions would have said that. They didn’t. The only reason this is public now is because HE leaked it. Actions > drunk slurred words said because a camera was shoved in my face when I asked him repeatedly to stop filming and to leave. The Wilbur Theatre Rumors—Let’s get petty for a second. This is another topic I’m cringing at discussing but we can thank Aidan for since he shared our sexual messages with Joe Flipperhead. And since some people (Auntie Deb, sweetie, this means you) insist on pushing their Dollar Store fan-fiction about the Wilbur Theatre night, let’s actually walk through what happened, using facts instead of whatever drug-induced hallucinations you’ve been spinning this week. The rumor goes like this- I was “mad at Aidan because we didn’t hook up,” and to “prove” it, they trot out a cherry-picked text where I said I wanted to hook up, he didn’t answer, and the next morning I said I was drunk and sorry. And somehow this has been spun into me being desperate, obsessed, or pining like a background character in a teenage soap opera. Adorable. Wrong, but adorable. Here’s the real plot twist-Aidan and I had already been together literally two days earlier, and shocker-that was initiated by him, not me. I didn’t just “show up at the Wilbur”. He invited me to come to the after party at Encore knowing I had a wedding earlier in the night. I wanted to see my friends there who I actually met to go with. This wasn’t a surprise, it was planned ahead of time. The “I was drunk, sorry” message wasn’t heartbreak. It wasn’t longing. It was me politely tapping the brakes because I didn’t even want to entertain whatever bad path it could lead us back down. And then? He texted me asking about my brother’s wedding, how I am, etc. I ignored him for a full week. Until I had no choice but to speak to him about MereNeill. That silence, from me, is what triggered his latest meltdown. Not mine. His. So no, Auntie Deb, your version isn’t “a different perspective.” It’s just wrong. Like wildly, hilariously, not-even-in-the-ballpark wrong. But sure, keep spinning fanfic if it makes your livestreams feel more exciting. I realize it’s probably been awhile since you’ve had any action since you’ve let yourself go so badly, so you live vicariously through others. Recap For MONTHS I ignored: • the texts he sent Joe to leak • the smear campaign • the creators parroting lies • the behind-the-scenes messages • the insinuations I hacked him and even shared revenge porn • the constant coordinated attacks • the threats of “turning me into the next Lindsey” • his warning that everyone would believe him because of his platform • the threats to contact my employer I didn’t clap back, didn’t retaliate, didn’t respond. But Wednesday, when Chelsea dumped the video he gave her, the same video she threatened weeks ago to drop, AND he posted pretending he didn’t want this all out? That was the line. They chose the nuclear option. Now I’m responding with facts in pure self-defense. Conclusion/Message for Temu Storm This entire mess could have stayed private. I wanted it to stay private. But when someone leaks your private moments, lies about your intentions, weaponizes your past, and coordinates an online attack, you either let the false narrative stand or you defend yourself. I’m choosing to defend myself with receipts, not gossip. With timelines, not “he said.” With evidence, not weaponized drunk clips. And then there’s Aidan’s favorite delusion. The claim that I was ‘working with Karen behind the scenes’ or ‘conspiring with her to get him in trouble for the recording.’ That could not be further from the truth. I didn’t even know he had recorded her until after she already knew about it herself. I wasn’t working with her, plotting with her, or communicating with her about it. She and I have always been friendly, but we didn’t even discuss the recording until it started leaking and Joe Flipperhead went feral on Twitter. Meanwhile, Aidan spent weeks screaming at me, accusing me of being some kind of secret double agent, like he was trying to create the betrayal he was terrified of. Almost a self-fulfilling prophecy. And here’s the reality: in the last few weeks, after he’s gone fully scorched earth on me, I have talked to her, and I support her 100%. The things he’s done to her over the past couple years, and the way he twisted it all for his followers, is the exact same manipulation I lived through. I’m not going into her details because that’s her story to tell… but let’s just say I have a feeling you’ll be hearing it sooner rather than later. And since this week has apparently become “Let’s All Fixate on Meredith Week,” let me address the content-creator sideshow, too. Some of you are strangers, while some I actually considered my friends. It’s shocking but not shocking how quickly you all flip a switch and follow your captain’s orders. Ray from Dallas spent his Sunday foaming at the mouth in a hostile little video about me, all bark, no substance. I saw it. I’m not intimidated. Mostly, I’m embarrassed for you. And your family(ies) will feel the same when your ass is doxxed next week. Can’t wait to tAkE tHaT WaLk with you! Then there’s Will, who’s gone on multiple streams calling me “crazy” and pretending he’s scared of me, despite me being nothing but nice to him. Why? Because he thinks I was the first one to tell Karen he heard the recording, which he absolutely did (unless Aidan is lying about who he played it for, but we know he’s actually telling the truth on this for once). She was informed of it the very next day, which is why she called you and you know this. This was two full days before I was even aware of a call at all. Will, for someone with your track record, maybe sit the “women are dangerous” narrative out. You’re not fooling anyone. I’m staring at 15 pages of police reports and no, it’s not all “things you’ve owned up for in the past”. You know this. Again, I’d take a very large seat here. And then my personal favorite-ex-fake friend Auntie Deb, who decided to spice up his Spaces on Thanksgiving by accusing me of distributing revenge porn with zero evidence, zero screenshots, zero anything. A completely fabricated felony tossed around like it’s gossip hour at the bingo hall. Considering your own professional history, James, I’d hope you of all people would understand how catastrophic false accusations can be, but apparently not. It would be a shame if I were to share the real reason around your separation at the middle school and how you wanted to bring Turtlenoy into it. This is all based on the several witnesses I’ve spoken to. See how that works? You announce things as fact based on something someone told you. I wonder if you’ll have that same enthusiasm when the topic is you. TBD. I’ll wait for that retraction about revenge porn. Ball’s in your court hun. And of course, there’s Jessica Machado, who’s been grinding this axe for months like it’s her full-time personality. Hos long did you cry when Chelsea beat you to the punch with that video? Don’t worry hun, there’s more but she didn’t post it because it’s not great for your fairytale. If you thought the fall-out of Kate’s video was bad, Jessica…stay tuned. I may have been momentarily distracted dealing with the chaos from Temu Chelsea, but there’s an army of your victims out there that are eager and ready for your downfall. The false claim that I shared “revenge porn,” the conspiracy theories, the wild accusations you present as fact, all of it. The 10+ streams you’ve now defamed me on. You’ve been so obsessed with me for so long that you can’t even keep your own narratives straight anymore. I love this so much for you. Let me be crystal clear–I am done being all of your punching bag. You love to spin this narrative that I’m this dangerous person. You’d think you’d lay off from constantly f*cking with me if you truly believed that. I would genuinely love for this nonsense to stop. But that requires ALL of you to stop manufacturing drama, stop lying, and stop weaponizing made-up crimes for clicks. And if they want to keep going? I’ve got plenty of content for many seasons to come.
0:57

The “I never wanted any of this to be public or content” Myth I never wanted any of this to come out. Except I actually mean that. It’s embarrassing, it’s trashy, and it’s the opposite of how I want to present myself publicly. I stayed silent for months while lie after lie was spun about me behind the scenes because I didn’t want to air private, messy moments from a relationship I genuinely cared about. I stayed silent out of fear, because I was told no one would believe me because he would be blindly believed on his large platform. In one of our very last conversations before I blocked him everywhere mid-October, he threatened to do a show on me, contact my employer, and “turn me into the next Lindsey”. Why? Because I didn’t want to continue apologizing to him for the 300th time about venting to someone I thought was a friend. I stayed silent because of these threats. But after Wednesday, after Chelsea posted the private video Aidan gave her, (the same one he threatened me with directly back on 10/2), and after the gaslighting posts yesterday, I don’t have a choice anymore. So here is the timeline. Here are the receipts. Here is what actually happened. September-October 2025- I Stayed Silent Through Months of Smear Campaigns For months, several creators repeated the same false narrative that “Aidan never said a bad word about Meredith.” Jess. Glarer. Auntie Deb. Kim. Ray from Dallas. Others. Meanwhile, Aidan was: • Badmouthing me privately and encouraging others to do so publicly, • Texting Joe “Flipperhead” entire paragraphs trashing me, • Aidan knew Joe would leak them (and even bragged on a stream that he did exactly that so he’d leak them), • Sending Jess Machado after me for months on her large platform, • Directing people behind the scenes to paint me as a villain. • Sending random people who supported me DMs to change their mind (yes Aidan, not everyone is fooled by your bullshit and they came right to me). I ignored all of it. I said nothing. I stayed silent through daily lies because I didn’t want to call more attention to it or face Aidan’s wrath. November 2025 -The Rumors About “March 4”, Joe Flipperhead Flips to Team Aidan Aidan texted Joe his entire made-up version weeks ago. Joe circulated those texts on purpose. Joe threatened me with posting a video montage of mine and Aidan’s private texts. Joe is a pussy so he eventually had Kristy post it for him. Creators discussed it publicly without me ever responding. I STILL didn’t defend myself. November 26-27, 2025- Ratchet Chelsea: The Full 48 Hour Meltdown 11/26/25- The Unprovoked Attack & The March 4 Video On Tuesday night, Chelsea came out of nowhere and launched herself straight at me, accusing me of all kinds of conspiracies from harassment to the horrific crime of sending a friend request, which is explained in vivid detail in the below post (she’s since gone somewhat viral, love this for her!) She spent the next 24 hours thoroughly embarrassing herself and the moment anyone challenged her story even slightly, she did what she always does: she imploded. Her accusations spiraled into her posting the March 4 video. On 11/26/25 at 11:08 PM, Chelsea posted the first clip–a blanket, context-less snippet of me drunk saying something I immediately apologized for the next morning. At 11:50 PM, I responded because at that point, I had no choice. 11/27/25-The Gaslighting & 9-Minute Backpedal Then yesterday, Aidan tried to save face by posting that he “didn’t want the video to be public.” And like clockwork, nine minutes later, Chelsea came charging into the comments like a Temu-sponsored bat out of hell, scrambling to apologize, trying to rewrite reality so it looked like he didn’t send her to do it. It was panicked, sloppy damage control. An amateur quality cover-up attempt that only made it more obvious how coordinated this all was. She wasn’t apologizing because she grew a conscience. She was apologizing because she got caught doing exactly what she’d been primed to do. I wonder if Aidan called her “you should’ve waited at least 20 minutes, dumbass!!!”. Not too bright that Chelsea. I can only imagine the regrets he must have for utilizing someone with the IQ of a pencil to do his dirty work. The Coordination Between Aidan & Chelsea Is Obvious Chelsea had virtually NO followers Wednesday morning. Aidan was one of the first. We’re supposed to believe someone with 150k followers just stumbled on an account that starts posting HIS private messages and HIS private videos? Kk. Aidan commented on her posts that same day, clearly encouraging it. She confirmed in my DMs back on 11/6 that she and Aidan were aligned. And she literally wrote at 4:04 AM that she had “proof,” videos & screenshots she would release if I didn’t “stop calling” her, calls she still hasn’t produced a single shred of proof of. Then yesterday within 9 minutes of his post, she writes: “Sorry for going rogue, Aidan, I hope you don’t hate my guts.” Going rogue? From WHAT? Who gave you the material in the first place? The coordination is obvious to anyone with functioning brain cells. The “I never wanted this public” lie Aidan’s post yesterday claimed he “never wanted this to be public.” If this were true, why did he instruct Chelsea to post it? Why did he share it with Jess Machado to threaten me with for the last month? Why did he share it with Joe Flipperhead, and God knows who else? If he didn’t want it public, he wouldn’t have shared it with anyone, let alone the girl I caught him cheating with. The timeline is clear– Chelsea posted a video at 11:08 pm on Thanksgiving Eve, I responded at 11:50 out of self defense. He leaked first. He escalated first. He weaponized it first. Trying to rewrite that now is gaslighting, pure and simple. He's been lighting matches behind the scenes for months, praying for this to go public. The “Meredith accused him of abuse” narrative is FALSE My actions tell the truth: • I never went to police. • I never filed anything. • I never told anyone he hit me. • I never repeated it. • I apologized the next day. • We stayed together for FOUR more months after that night. • He called me 100+ times some days, even indicating he’d end his life if we broke up. If he believed I was “dangerous,” his actions would have said that. They didn’t. The only reason this is public now is because HE leaked it. Actions > drunk slurred words said because a camera was shoved in my face when I asked him repeatedly to stop filming and to leave. The Wilbur Theatre Rumors—Let’s get petty for a second. This is another topic I’m cringing at discussing but we can thank Aidan for since he shared our sexual messages with Joe Flipperhead. And since some people (Auntie Deb, sweetie, this means you) insist on pushing their Dollar Store fan-fiction about the Wilbur Theatre night, let’s actually walk through what happened, using facts instead of whatever drug-induced hallucinations you’ve been spinning this week. The rumor goes like this- I was “mad at Aidan because we didn’t hook up,” and to “prove” it, they trot out a cherry-picked text where I said I wanted to hook up, he didn’t answer, and the next morning I said I was drunk and sorry. And somehow this has been spun into me being desperate, obsessed, or pining like a background character in a teenage soap opera. Adorable. Wrong, but adorable. Here’s the real plot twist-Aidan and I had already been together literally two days earlier, and shocker-that was initiated by him, not me. I didn’t just “show up at the Wilbur”. He invited me to come to the after party at Encore knowing I had a wedding earlier in the night. I wanted to see my friends there who I actually met to go with. This wasn’t a surprise, it was planned ahead of time. The “I was drunk, sorry” message wasn’t heartbreak. It wasn’t longing. It was me politely tapping the brakes because I didn’t even want to entertain whatever bad path it could lead us back down. And then? He texted me asking about my brother’s wedding, how I am, etc. I ignored him for a full week. Until I had no choice but to speak to him about MereNeill. That silence, from me, is what triggered his latest meltdown. Not mine. His. So no, Auntie Deb, your version isn’t “a different perspective.” It’s just wrong. Like wildly, hilariously, not-even-in-the-ballpark wrong. But sure, keep spinning fanfic if it makes your livestreams feel more exciting. I realize it’s probably been awhile since you’ve had any action since you’ve let yourself go so badly, so you live vicariously through others. Recap For MONTHS I ignored: • the texts he sent Joe to leak • the smear campaign • the creators parroting lies • the behind-the-scenes messages • the insinuations I hacked him and even shared revenge porn • the constant coordinated attacks • the threats of “turning me into the next Lindsey” • his warning that everyone would believe him because of his platform • the threats to contact my employer I didn’t clap back, didn’t retaliate, didn’t respond. But Wednesday, when Chelsea dumped the video he gave her, the same video she threatened weeks ago to drop, AND he posted pretending he didn’t want this all out? That was the line. They chose the nuclear option. Now I’m responding with facts in pure self-defense. Conclusion/Message for Temu Storm This entire mess could have stayed private. I wanted it to stay private. But when someone leaks your private moments, lies about your intentions, weaponizes your past, and coordinates an online attack, you either let the false narrative stand or you defend yourself. I’m choosing to defend myself with receipts, not gossip. With timelines, not “he said.” With evidence, not weaponized drunk clips. And then there’s Aidan’s favorite delusion. The claim that I was ‘working with Karen behind the scenes’ or ‘conspiring with her to get him in trouble for the recording.’ That could not be further from the truth. I didn’t even know he had recorded her until after she already knew about it herself. I wasn’t working with her, plotting with her, or communicating with her about it. She and I have always been friendly, but we didn’t even discuss the recording until it started leaking and Joe Flipperhead went feral on Twitter. Meanwhile, Aidan spent weeks screaming at me, accusing me of being some kind of secret double agent, like he was trying to create the betrayal he was terrified of. Almost a self-fulfilling prophecy. And here’s the reality: in the last few weeks, after he’s gone fully scorched earth on me, I have talked to her, and I support her 100%. The things he’s done to her over the past couple years, and the way he twisted it all for his followers, is the exact same manipulation I lived through. I’m not going into her details because that’s her story to tell… but let’s just say I have a feeling you’ll be hearing it sooner rather than later. And since this week has apparently become “Let’s All Fixate on Meredith Week,” let me address the content-creator sideshow, too. Some of you are strangers, while some I actually considered my friends. It’s shocking but not shocking how quickly you all flip a switch and follow your captain’s orders. Ray from Dallas spent his Sunday foaming at the mouth in a hostile little video about me, all bark, no substance. I saw it. I’m not intimidated. Mostly, I’m embarrassed for you. And your family(ies) will feel the same when your ass is doxxed next week. Can’t wait to tAkE tHaT WaLk with you! Then there’s Will, who’s gone on multiple streams calling me “crazy” and pretending he’s scared of me, despite me being nothing but nice to him. Why? Because he thinks I was the first one to tell Karen he heard the recording, which he absolutely did (unless Aidan is lying about who he played it for, but we know he’s actually telling the truth on this for once). She was informed of it the very next day, which is why she called you and you know this. This was two full days before I was even aware of a call at all. Will, for someone with your track record, maybe sit the “women are dangerous” narrative out. You’re not fooling anyone. I’m staring at 15 pages of police reports and no, it’s not all “things you’ve owned up for in the past”. You know this. Again, I’d take a very large seat here. And then my personal favorite-ex-fake friend Auntie Deb, who decided to spice up his Spaces on Thanksgiving by accusing me of distributing revenge porn with zero evidence, zero screenshots, zero anything. A completely fabricated felony tossed around like it’s gossip hour at the bingo hall. Considering your own professional history, James, I’d hope you of all people would understand how catastrophic false accusations can be, but apparently not. It would be a shame if I were to share the real reason around your separation at the middle school and how you wanted to bring Turtlenoy into it. This is all based on the several witnesses I’ve spoken to. See how that works? You announce things as fact based on something someone told you. I wonder if you’ll have that same enthusiasm when the topic is you. TBD. I’ll wait for that retraction about revenge porn. Ball’s in your court hun. And of course, there’s Jessica Machado, who’s been grinding this axe for months like it’s her full-time personality. Hos long did you cry when Chelsea beat you to the punch with that video? Don’t worry hun, there’s more but she didn’t post it because it’s not great for your fairytale. If you thought the fall-out of Kate’s video was bad, Jessica…stay tuned. I may have been momentarily distracted dealing with the chaos from Temu Chelsea, but there’s an army of your victims out there that are eager and ready for your downfall. The false claim that I shared “revenge porn,” the conspiracy theories, the wild accusations you present as fact, all of it. The 10+ streams you’ve now defamed me on. You’ve been so obsessed with me for so long that you can’t even keep your own narratives straight anymore. I love this so much for you. Let me be crystal clear–I am done being all of your punching bag. You love to spin this narrative that I’m this dangerous person. You’d think you’d lay off from constantly f*cking with me if you truly believed that. I would genuinely love for this nonsense to stop. But that requires ALL of you to stop manufacturing drama, stop lying, and stop weaponizing made-up crimes for clicks. And if they want to keep going? I’ve got plenty of content for many seasons to come.

Meredith O

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