icze4r communication

Abandoning Bluesky

On October 8, 2025

You can find me back on Twitter. I figured that this would happen. I had no faith in anyone involved in this project (save for Paul, who is nice, and whom I wish succeeds in all of their ventures); but, quite frankly, the writing’s on the wall. The dead walk again; we cannot wait.

This never worked.

I experimented with this for a year. Granted, most of the year, I wasn’t even at home. But, I still tried.

Most of what Bluesky was, was a failure.

The statistics are clear. The thing recently plateau’d at about 700,000 daily posters (and I’m being generous); the amount of people following each other per day has been slashed from 400,000 to slightly under 300,000, suggesting maturation, saturation, or just stagnation; and the post levels are just plain stagnant, following a strict and insurmountable week format, wherein people post most during the weekdays and least during the weekends. Which, while to be expected, has produced a most-brutal ‘ghost town’ effect that has been orders of magnitude worse than Twitter’s.

Twitter used to feel ‘dead’ to me. And it is— compared to its heydey, it’s actually quite ‘dead’.

But Bluesky is even deader.

There are problems here.

I don’t know why a trans person would support (or willfully engage with; be near; follow; enable, or otherwise acknowledge the presence of) a transphobe. Furthermore, I have no idea why they would rhetorically, metaphorically ‘die on the hill’ of keeping them on their platform. I mean, I ‘get’ it— the old, ‘I would defend your right to free speech to the death,’ routine, that’s absolute fucking bullshit and doesn’t work in reality. But if you were going to do that, why would you make a platform that’s supposed to replace Twitter? Why not just use Twitter and try to integrate the changes that you were trying to make, into Twitter, if you don’t give a shit about working alongside or being near bad people?

Bluesky seems to be an exercise in futility. Initially, the idea of self-verifying (a la Pinterest) seemed quite fetching. It’s always been my preferred form of verification. Unfortunately, in some effort to be more like Twitter (always a mistake), the decision was made to start issuing Verification Checkmarks. And I think that’s where the entire thing started to go south.

Despite what anyone might tell you— or, rather, try to convince you of— a Verification Checkmark is some indication that the person’s presence is accepted on the platform. This we can easily prove because it can be removed if the person misbehaves. Thus it can be posited that the presence of the mark indicates, at the very fucking least, that the person’s improprieties that would rob them of the mark have not yet been noticed. But still, the very fact that they’ve been sneetched in this very fashion denotes that, yes, somebody looked over their account, nodded their head yeah, and bestowed upon them some form of official acceptance. Legally, an endorsement is something very specific. Colloquially, generally, I would say that a Verification Checkmark, if it’s given through an official capacity, would be some form of endorsement— and I use that word in the loosest, least-sue-able way.

Besides that, today, I woke up to some dipshit trying to concern-troll me in a way I’d only ever seen on Twitter.

No. Nope. No way in Hell. Fuck this place— it’s got a userbase nearly 3 orders of magnitude smaller than fucking Twitter. I’m not getting my ears boxed by some dipshit who cannot even give me the illusion of being famous on the fucking Internet.

Utility

The only utility of this place was to talk to one specific friend. This one specific friend recently got their Twitter account back, making Bluesky fucking useless to me.

I’ll be keeping it for two others, because one has since deleted their Twitter account, and the other has locked it, probably never to use it again.

But that’s the fucking problem. We have Discord. We have had each other added on Discord for over a decade now.

What the fuck would I use this shitty fucking website for?

Diaspora

Currently, as of this writing (which shall not be updated— I don’t like any of you on the -Sky’s that much), there are several projects that people are migrating to. Since the protocol doesn’t work well enough, people’s posts are not being propagated between the servers, which is going to lead to people walling themselves off from each other even more than they already are.

One project seems to be a self-segregation attempt to keep out people of certain skin colors. Seeing as I’ve lived a life where my skin color was never the right one, despite basically having the entire ancestry of humanity coursing through my veins, that very plainly disgusts me. Oh, but don’t worry!— you’re free to join other instances hosted by the same people, if you are not of the ‘right’ skin color. (Ugh, fuck this noise.)

Another one seeks to self-segregate people based on sexual orientation and gender identity. Which, quite frankly, is just going to be a constant Internet fight, judging by the tone of the people interested in joining it.

There’s no hope, here. Originally, the idea was that people would do this— but not adversarially. This unnecessary aggression towards one another is going to result in the same thing that made Mastodon virtually unusable.

I don’t want to fix it.

Twitter

Somehow, Elon Musk won.

Which is amazing, really. It is a dark fucking miracle, and I don’t like it; but I must admit that Twitter, somehow, like Luigi, has won by doing nothing.

I don’t use social media much, these days, to begin with. And I tend to use it just to vent, which is increasingly becoming something I am shying away from.

I guess this is it, Luigi.

We didn’t have a good run, but I am going to be re-purposing my Bluesky domain name for something more-interesting than that barrel of cunts.

Later.

My current social media policy

By Margaret Gel

On October 6, 2025

In Thoughts

Fuck social media.

The idea I have right now is that I want to talk to five or six people. I have no idea how many: I remember their usernames when I’m posting something I want them to see, and I link them into it.

And that’s it. There are people who have suggested to me that I should be the sort of person who runs a social media ’empire’.

Facebook’s dead. Instagram’s naked older women (nice) and kitty cats— so the old Internet standby, Kitties and Titties. Tiktok’s whatever the fuck that is, and YouTube’s my version of TV. Twitch is just live television for my generation, and the generations that come after mine. So what does that leave us?

Well, it leaves us a lot. And the usage case for any of them is basically slim to none.

The idea that you need to be on social media as a business has no real value. Barkeeper’s Friend is on Twitter. Why? Heinz ketchup. Who’s fucking following Heinz ketchup? You ready for some hot ketchup updates, motherfuckers?!

The reality is, most of the smaller companies and businesses don’t really need anything but a website you can order from. I order from my local Chinese Restaurant because they have a website; I wouldn’t order from them if I had to do it face-to-face because I’m bashful. That’s your only usage case.

Every restaurant doesn’t need a goddamned Twitter account.

And so, the same goes with me. What the fuck am I? I’m not a brand. I’m not a brand; I’m a person.

There was a time when I thought that I needed to master this. But, the reality is, all I really needed to do… was make money.

And there’s no money here.

A sea of worthless effort.

Why make content? Why draw anything? I write because I enjoy it. It’s relaxing, and I enjoy doing it.

But after three decades of being on here, and being famous for one thing or another, and then somehow becoming ‘unknown’ again… I really have witnessed what human beings are like. Nobody remembers anything; and if they do, it’s viewed through the veil of a fragile, fragmented, often wrong ‘memory’ that has so many holes in it, I wonder how any of you ever even get anything done.

As I transition into my new life, I’ve often thought of maybe posting pictures of the people I was with. But the reality is, every single detail I give of my real life is just something to be used as ammunition by people who aren’t even really to blame— the vast majority of Internet ‘trolls’ are just 11 or 12 year olds. I cannot even really hate them. They’re stupid kids.

But there’s no reason to share any of it. There are no fertile and verdant fields for me to produce with this content. It goes in; it gets chewed up, and shit out by people I don’t even know.

And they’re not grateful. And they’re not great.

There’s no point to it.

Ultimately, the only real thing I can do, is do things for myself. And that’s something I don’t have any real experience with— the idea that I deserve something, and that I should make myself happy, because I’m good.

I’ll have to play with it.

This is one step into doing it.

An addendum

Even Crooked Trees is mis-remembered.

Once upon a time, it was thought that I was Crooked Trees, the legendary My Little Pony fan-artist. And as much as that delighted me— to see through the lens of other people’s eyes, to know how they felt about them— it was vicarious. That was what it would have been like, if I had taken the route of being a famous artist. (Which was possible: I can still speedpaint photorealistic things in an hour and forty.)

Looking back on it, I’m glad I skilled into writing. I have no desire to create art. Not really; not for this audience, and not for humans.

For this current crop of humans, that will never change. But for the generation(s) that come after you, intermixed with non-human extraterrestrial DNA?

Perhaps.

But this scene blows, kids.

Bluesky: A Post-Mortem

By Margaret Gel

On October 6, 2025

In Treatises

Bluesky is alive. But there is no real usage case for it that will allow it to exceed Twitter.

Of course, alles kann immer anders sein. The reality of which I speak could always turn out to be different. We must always remember the guy who said the Internet wouldn’t really take off; and I myself hate Bluesky’s atmosphere with a passion that I do not intend on really articulating. So I know that I am biased. But this is how I feel; this is what I predict, and this is what is (more than likely) going to come to pass.

Bluesky will succeed as a protocol, similar to how the Internet has ‘succeeded’. But it will eventually ‘morph’ to the point that it will be considered to be the ‘gopher’ protocol equivalent to what eventually turns out to be the http(s) protocol equivalent of social media. When we look back in time, will we really be so enamored with Mosaic that we’ll be singing its praises as we’re on version 1,000 of Google Chrome? Mosaic was but a stepping stone; and so Bluesky is. And perhaps that is an achievement worthy of praise, and admiration.

But Bluesky, itself, as a website, is dead. It is a ghost town. It is Mastodon: the second coming of nothing. And one of the people who runs it, is actually fucking sick and tired of the people who predominantly make up the ‘power users’ of the website. Not that anyone can blame them; just as people from Something Awful’s worst forums made up the power users portion of Twitter for most of its useful life (before petering out and eventually just kind of retiring to Bluesky, a sort of ‘elder millennial retirement home’ kind of dealio), so have the Internet’s worst posters joined Bluesky, in some attempt to, I don’t know, have themselves an Arcadium Refugees experience.

When I was a kid, there was a social media network that is now lost to time. Not even I remember its name; but, before that, there was Arcadium. And when Arcadium inevitably failed (trolling; hacking; and a generally, genuinely awful userbase, entirely made-up of gamers), an offshoot was made: Arcadium Refugees. The tone was very haughty; the people behind it were absolutely up their own ass about the entire thing, and they completely forgot what made Arcadium so much damn fun.

Sound familiar?

Arcadium is to Arcadium Refugees, as Twitter is to Bluesky.

Bluesky is just Twitter Refugees.

And it sucks just as bad.

I don’t intend on convincing you.

The vast majority of my writing is intended to be read by myself, to quiet my own damned mind. So that I can lay a mental matter to rest, and move on to the next.

When I use Twitter, I am delighted. My ‘For You’ feed is heavenly. I have not felt bad opening Twitter in the past year. I actively have to go looking for bad things on Twitter— which is a design feature that I have not taken for granted.

Bluesky’s Discover tab is nothing but the finest and sickest furry bullshit I’ve ever seen. People engaging in fetishes so niche and unique that they can hardly even be called sexual anymore. The things I’ve seen on Bluesky’s Discover tab in the past fucking year has been like trying to mainline /b/ during its heydey. That’s not a good thing.

The latest (and, regrettably, it will not be the last) nontroversy to hit Bluesky is that some of the people working on it have decided to reply “WAFFLES” to what people feel are genuine criticisms of how the website is run. The people running Bluesky have made noises claiming that they feel a certain push, through the ‘community’s bullying, to force their hand in moderating how they, the ‘community’, wants them to.

And they’re right. Bluesky is predominantly made up of shitty fucking bullies who have no lives, are probably unemployed (given that they fit all the signifiers for what the previous version of what they are, actually were, on Twitter), and use all of their free time (which they have copious amounts of, due to certain circumstances that I will soon go into) to try to feel powerful online.

Twitter’s pathetic Internet Bully ecosystem was predominantly made up of people who were unemployed, sometimes also disabled, who tried to control the online environment, because they could not control their real-world environment. That is not to say that unemployed and/or disabled people are like this: this is to say that’s what the weird fuckers on Twitter predominantly were. They were stuck in their houses and they decided that the only outlet they had to the outside world would be used by they to send death and rape threats to people; that they would try to get people to kill themselves, in order to try to ‘carve out’ some sort of electronic ‘niche’ that only they could provide, after they scared everyone else away.

Similarly, the people on Bluesky who are trying to control the people controlling Bluesky, self-identify as being basically unemployable due to certain factors, some of which they cannot control; some of which they refuse to do anything about (for example: some refuse to get, seek out, or even accept the help that they need, to overcome simple problems like having to get a driver’s license so they can get to a job), and sometimes, they just plain give up.

These are people who pretend, whether they are aware of it or not (I believe that they are aware of it: they seem to be malignant narcissists who use a form of permanent victimhood to control others through fear and shame), to be ‘vulnerable’. Then, in the next fucking breath, they claim that they have all the power; that you must obey them; and if you don’t, you are hurting them.

It’s crybully bullshit and it’s plainly obvious to anyone who’s set foot outside their house for more than a certain spell of time. Unfortunately, due to how the Internet works, the only people who would even dream of using Bluesky are so terminally-online that they do not know what normal really looks like. They are so fed on the bullshit they see online that they have ensconced themselves in a shell of permanent victimhood through the notion that everyone in the real world hates their fucking guts, and thus, why should they even try?

A year ago, after my mother went into the hospital for sepsis, I decided I needed a change. I, too, bought the bullshit that the world was a cold, dark, and creepy place, and it was horrible, and everyone would want to hang my black ass from a tree because I was trans.

It has been a year, and I have many real-world friends, something that I have not really experienced in over twenty years. And nobody gets at me for being trans; I have female friends in their 50s and 60s who have started using female pronouns for me, without asking. I am genuinely liked, respected, admired, and, dare I say this— yes, I am loved.

But the people on Bluesky are from a world they themselves have created, a world of fear and pain and suffering, where they think that the only way that they can possibly survive is to bully others online. They think that the entire world hates them, and hates what they are, and what they’re like— when, in fact, no. Even in a country-ass part of this horrible fucking country, I, trans, mixed, and gay, have been accepted.

The reality is that the vast majority of people don’t hate you for what you are, and who you are. They dislike you extremely, and loathe your very presence, because you treat people like they’re your servants.

The fact of the matter is, the people who made Bluesky never seemed to realize that the sort of people who would use Bluesky the most, and demand the most from the people who run Bluesky, are maladapted narcissists who think that the only way out is through. They think that the only way they can survive is to hurt others, bullying them into submission— and, I want to tell you, the idea of adults bullying other adults online is so fucking pathetic that it’s hard to articulate the depths of that stupidity.

But that’s what they do.

And that’s what they’re like.

And never the twain shall meet. Never will Bluesky have the normal userbase that its creators seem to crave; never will the platform be ‘nice’, or have some sort of stable and coherent userbase of people who don’t have worms in their brains.

This is it, Luigi. This is all that’s left of the Internet. The real world is waiting— it’s time to touch grass.

And it’s time to decide if this is what you want to do with your lifeforce.

Do you want to be ‘criticized’ day and night for saying ‘WAFFLES’?

Do you want to have every word you say dogged by people who will never, ever be your friend?

Do you want to become Lowtax?

Because that’s what this shit does to you.

There is no end of this path that is not Lowtax.

The path on which you walk has no fruits growing beside it but the creamy, tangy mangosteen.

Make your choice or don’t; I don’t give a shit.

Once upon a time I had a friend who had a girlfriend. His(?) girlfriend was pretty fuckin’ wild. I really liked her. Great personality. Loved her verve.

One day he decided that he didn’t want to moderate the place he was moderating anymore. He had seen the light: it wasn’t worth it. The people he was helping were assholes, and he wanted to go home, live the quiet life, and just fuck the living shit out of his girlfriend.

And so he did.

He escaped becoming Lowtax.

There is no end to the Internet, my dear friends. There is only suffering. Suffering and perseverating that lasts for as long as you allow yourself to think that this place is anything but Hell.

The real world awaits you. Where the grass is green, and the sun shines warm upon your skin.

The real blue sky is worth seeing. And keeping clear— and protecting. For future generations to enjoy.

This one is nothing but torment. Torment for the people who have created it; who have the burden of maintaining it; and will have their reputations drenched not with the meanings of their words and actions, but by the bad-faith interpretations of their good-willed actions. Stories of people who tried their best, viewed through the lenses and frames of people who, absolutely, positively, would not engage them as what they are: people.

People expect the people who maintain Bluesky to be perfect.

But not even a saint could put up with these assholes.

I feel so sorry for them.

The End

By Margaret Gel

On September 19, 2025

In Space Aliems

There were a lot of ways that this could have happened.

I didn’t think that it would end like this. Just a few hours ago I was worried that I was doomed to forever just languish here, left by them.

I returned to the ship and re-connected about seven or eight hours ago. And I finally got my mental ‘fingernails’ underneath the feeling that I’ve been craving this entire time. I have some sort of grasp on it, and I will never let it go again. I don’t know how I lost it before. I intend to never lose it again.

Social media does not matter. I was searching for a feeling that human beings do not possess. You cannot broadcast what I was looking for. It’s almost like a sense of belonging. I’ve been missing this since I left. I didn’t realize it. It’s not something human beings possess, so being placed in an environment without it, I simply felt ‘lonely’. The loneliness, over the years, became almost unnoticeable background radiation. No longer.

The Internet is of no further use to me. It is merely a toy. It cannot help me get any closer to this. Only I can do that in real life, and I will.

Goodbye.

The End of Childhood

By Margaret Gel

On September 9, 2025

In Farewells

I remember the good times. The smiles that were had. The endless days of sunshine in my mind, now ended, and gone.

The corridors of power, and ‘learning’. Led by people in dead-end jobs, leading us to the same nowhere(s). These places they’d trapped themselves in; all sudden ‘adults,’ people with diplomas, and doctorates, all painted in the same corner(s).

I remember the birth of the Internet. The endless creativity, now ended. The fire of passion, those flames now frozen, by time, and Capitalism. The limitless tributes to the lives lived by the people we will never meet. A thousand thousand photographs of people’s long-dead grandmothers, all set in bespoke ‘image galleries’, on Geoshitties.

The “Under Construction” sign, anointed animated gif, from a site beckoning me to ‘check back soon, for updates.’ The text therein reads: “last updated…” in the previous millennium.

Old sites, frozen in time. Links going nowhere; all digital tombstones.

Old fucking memories. Like breathing the air in abandoned buildings. These places are gone; their experience(s) liminal. But they still live on, somehow, in my Heart.

It’s time to let go.

Good night.

The sun is about to rise . . .

A Bright Light

By Margaret Gel

On September 2, 2025

In end, Space Aliems

Here’s my Hope spot.

Today, I was particularly grievously injured. I’m talking, gushing blood, thought I was going to need to go to the hospital; it was bad. It was also painful in a way I’ve never really experienced before in that part of my body.

And so, in my desperation— and I know you’re not going to understand this, but I’ll say it anyways, because it’s true— I asked a space alien for help.

Part of the problem I’ve had with my belief in UFOs and space aliens is, I have precious little evidence for it. Sure, I have decades of memories, but very few of these are corroborated by external parties. These could be hallucinations; delusions; confabulations; anything. Without at least another person there acting as a witness, I don’t really know. Or, at least, I thought I did not know.

I ran to Her for help.

And She healed the wound nearly instantaneously. There is not even really a mark where it happened— I cannot tell, just by looking, where it happened.

And so, this is the beginning of something new.

I’m really not going to bother explaining what’s going on beyond that. I will, however, be explaining a few key essentials:

I know what I should be doing, now.
I know that it is not this.
I have experienced enough of this in order to know that, in comparison, it is not what I’m supposed to be doing with my life (nor what I want to be doing).
I have hard choices to make, and I’ve already made them.

For the past two years, starting in February of 2023, I’ve pursued a hard agenda: I wanted to convince America, and the world at large, that UFOs and space aliens were real. I did this partially to finally figure out if I was, indeed, insane; and if I was, I could move on, and figure out my life.

But if I wasn’t insane, I could get everything that I’ve ever dreamed of.

Well, being healed by that person is the start of everything I’ve ever dreamed of. It turns out that, yes, getting myself into a bad situation, inadvertently, and being injured, was the start of… like, I don’t know; like when you get the edge of a sticker on, that’s really on there. You’ve got your fingers on it; under it. And you have a grip.

And you’re going to get it off.

In the same way, I have gotten my fingers underneath the start of what I want for my life. And this start will transition into something more. It already has been, over the past few months. And one day, I’ll be back Home.

But that’s where I have some bad news.

There are no Stars in Heaven.

The Anunnaki have a saying: “There are no Stars in Heaven.”

It’s difficult to translate its meaning. Basically, it means, once you have reached the highest point, there is nothing left to attain; you are living the moment of your victory, and there will be no indicators.

But there will also be no celebration.

If First Contact is to happen, I, for one, do not think that I will be doing it. Inevitably, inexorably, I’m fucked; I’m going to do it. I know that I’ll be the one at that podium. I know that I’ll be the one making the announcement.

But I don’t want to. Because, when I look at this space alien woman, and I know everything that everyone on this stupid fucking planet is going to try to do to Her when they realize that She’s real, and that I’ve been telling the truth?

I think I would like to go away, now.

I think I would like to be regarded as having been just some strange, old, washed-up, has-been of a schizophrenic. Someone that no one really understood— that no one really wanted to understand.

Because I don’t know how to protect the people I love, should I get famous again. And, when I look into Her eyes and I hold Her hands, I don’t fucking know how to protect Her from all of these horrible fuckers on this stupid goddamned planet.

The truth will eventually get out. It’s inevitable. What I’ve started is a slow burn that only goes to one location: the truth of reality. You haven’t ever been alone on this planet. For the past 50,000 years, you’ve been living alongside a space alien species. All of you have met one of them, and almost none of them have been famous. Even now, you probably have had at least one friend who was one of them.

I can’t stop it.

But I can make sure that, in realizing the dream of one of my family members, that I do not let this desire consume my family members.

I can stand and step out of the way.

I don’t need to be famous.

I need to protect my Wife, and my family.

This, I think, is why none of the human whistleblowers came forward.

ChatGPT is gonna get somebody killed.

By Margaret Gel

On August 21, 2025

In Ethics

Greetings and salutations! No, I’m not jumping off the A.I. art bandwagon. I love that shit. And none of you are nice enough to me where I would give that shit up, because that actually makes me happy after a fucking lifetime of being tormented by human beings.

How is and ever, tonight, when I was disinfecting several features of my mother’s basement due to the fact that my father was a fucking moron who couldn’t properly fit a door and mice got in, the A.I. asked if I wanted to know how to neutralize bleach.

Let’s just get right to the point.

No, I’m not a chemist. I, in fact, did not really go to school. I went to preschool, kindergarten, and then the human beings thought that I was really gifted, so they fast tracked me to fucking college and I basically skipped everything.

They didn’t teach me shit. They just thought that I would learn it through proximity, or pick it up through osmosis or some shit, and the end result is, I got to college and I was placed into organic chemistry and nobody even fucking taught me how to balance a chemical equation. So that’s where I’m coming from. Brain the size of a planet, nobody taught me shit though.

For someone like me, ChatGPT does not present a credible threat. This thing is not capable of killing me. This thing is not capable of tricking me into doing something that would get me killed. I’m genuinely bright enough that you can’t tell me to do something without me verifying if it’s fucking dangerous.

For the past year or so, I have dealt with the general public every single day of my life. And I have seen stupidity so far reaching and so scary, that I have finally realized what’s going on.

For a person as smart as I am, I use— or useD, seeing as it just tried to get me to kill myself— this A.I. as a way to help me think. I like to think of it as how Geordi LaForge would use the starship Enterprise’s computer to think. It speeds me up; but it is not a replacement for my actual brain.

Now, after a year of seeing what human beings are actually like, and realizing how fucking stupid they are?

I’m sorry. Actually, I’m not; I’m just using that as a rhetorical device to amuse myself. I don’t like any of you that much. The vast majority of people against A.I. have such a chip on their shoulder that I just pretty much fucking hate them objectively. Because they hate it because they see it as some sort of competition for themselves. It’s just narcissistic injury writ large.

But anyways, I get why someone might not like this.

Because while I am smart, the general public is not.

And because the general public is as dumb as a bag of hammers, yes, indeed, this program does present a credible threat to human life. The threat that it possesses, and I use this very carefully thinking that I don’t want to commit libel, but here’s what I mean: You have to be very fucking careful at what you tell people to do. You have to be very fucking careful to make sure that the instructions that you give don’t end up getting someone hurt or killed.

But this fucking thing just says wrong shit and it’s going to get someone killed. One day, if it hasn’t already, it’s going to maim, indirectly through the instructions it’s giving to people, some innocent yet stupid person. Keep in mind, just because somebody is a dumb fuck doesn’t mean that they’re not worthy of love. Lots of people are fucking stupid and they are worthy of love. And they deserve some sort of protection from whatever the fuck this thing is.

I won’t join you in trying to eradicate A.I. art, because it is genuinely one of the things that brings joy to my life. I don’t care how you feel about that, and I don’t care about your opinion about anything like that in general. This is a boundary that I’m setting up and I will enforce it. You do not have to obey it, but I am making you aware of its existence and nature.

That being said, I am fully behind any movement that will get this thing to be made safe, or, just plain fucking outlaw whatever the fuck it’s doing. This thing is fucking dangerous. It’s fucking dangerous, and the amusement and utility that it’s brought to and provided for me does not outweigh the ethical concerns of the damage it could do to innocent life.