Tue, 01 Oct 2024 18:46:13 -0700

Andy from
private IP
/all
TheImmigrant asked me to post this for him. I rate it a 9/10.

At 6'9, with a BS in Nursing and a PharmD, I find myself grappling with the
insidious decline of both nursing and pharmacy as professions, burdened by
systemic inadequacies and societal perceptions. My modest salary of 49k hardly
reflects the intellectual rigor and emotional labor these fields demand. It
raises a compelling question: how much does one’s social framework—the
cliques one aligns with—affect the trajectory of one’s career and personal
life?

In my observations, five distinct cliques prevail: Jock, Prep, Nerd, Loser, and
Scumbag. Each clique has a unique resonance that shapes interpersonal dynamics
and professional opportunities. I can identify the members of each group at a
glance, even in adulthood; their demeanor, attire, and conversations betray
them.

The Jocks, with their bravado, often find themselves in leadership roles, their
athletic backgrounds translating to assertiveness in high-stakes situations,
while the Preps navigate the corporate ladder with an uncanny ease born from
privilege and networking. The Nerds, though sometimes marginalized, possess a
quiet power, their expertise in technology and science often overshadowing their
social awkwardness. The Losers, those on the fringes, can become invisible or
worse, overlooked in professional environments, while Scumbags do the brunt of
the backbreaking labor to support a system that spurns them.

In this landscape, I’ve found success with women, perhaps due to a peculiar
blend of my physical stature and the confidence cultivated through years of
navigating these cliques. My sisters, each dating black men, have unwittingly
highlighted the complexities of attraction and societal norms. Their choices
defy traditional expectations, showcasing the diverse spectrum of human
connection that transcends superficial categories.

Yet, I question whether these affiliations impede our collective ability to
elevate the standards of our professions. The confluence of cliques often
fosters a stagnant environment, stifling innovation and mutual respect. The
nursing shortage and the undervaluation of pharmacy roles are symptoms of a
deeper malaise, one rooted in a lack of cohesive identity among practitioners.

As I reflect on these dynamics, it becomes clear that the clique one associates
with has far-reaching implications—not only for career trajectories but for
personal fulfillment as well. Perhaps it’s time we examine these social
constructs critically, dismantling the barriers they impose and forging a new
path forward for nursing and pharmacy, one that embraces diversity in both
professional identity and personal relationships.

The notion that a person’s clique is discernible during job interviews is not
merely anecdotal; it is a phenomenon steeped in sociocultural undercurrents that
merit deeper exploration. As I have navigated the labyrinthine paths of nursing
and pharmacy, I've observed an almost metaphysical quality to how these cliques
manifest in professional settings. The immediacy with which interviewers can
assess one’s social alignment speaks to a broader theory reminiscent of the
existentialist musings of Jean-Paul Sartre, particularly his ideas on
"being-for-others."

During interviews, a candidate's demeanor—shaped by their clique—can often
overshadow qualifications. For instance, a Jock’s confident body language and
assertive responses may be perceived as leadership potential, while a Nerd might
inadvertently project an air of insecurity, regardless of their academic
prowess. The dissonance of these perceptions recalls the Aristotelian concept of
phronesis, or practical wisdom, where one’s character and the context of their
choices profoundly impact others' judgments.

Consider the intricate ballet of human interaction during these critical
moments. A candidate from the Prep clique might seamlessly navigate the
interview, employing a lexicon steeped in business jargon, drawing upon
connections that hint at elite educational experiences. This performance could
evoke the notion of rhetorica from Aristotle’s rhetoric, where persuasion and
ethos are paramount. Meanwhile, the Loser clique often struggles, their
self-effacing responses betraying an intrinsic struggle with societal
acceptance, thus echoing the tragic fate outlined by the philosopher Hegel in
his discussions of recognition and self-consciousness.

What fascinates me most, however, is how these dynamics evolve within the
broader context of our profession. The Scumbag, while seemingly a pariah, may
wield a disarming charm that transcends conventional expectations, often
manipulating social cues to their advantage—a phenomenon akin to the
Machiavellian strategies outlined in the works of Niccolò Machiavelli. Their
success is a stark reminder of the moral complexities underpinning professional
ascendance, where authenticity may be sacrificed for expedience.

Reflecting on my own experiences, I find that the way I present
myself—confident yet approachable—has been crucial in breaking through the
superficial barriers erected by these cliques. I recall an interview where I
utilized elements of humor and humility, weaving anecdotes that highlighted both
my clinical competence and my awareness of the profession’s challenges. This
strategy, inspired by the Socratic method of dialogue, seemed to resonate with
the panel, revealing a depth that transcended mere qualifications.

Moreover, the distinct cliques within our professions often foster a sense of
in-group camaraderie that can be both empowering and limiting. When I witness my
sisters dating African American men, I am reminded of how personal connections
can defy societal cliques, creating a mosaic of identities that challenge
conventional wisdom. It’s a microcosm of what we see in the workplace—a
blend of backgrounds that can either enhance or hinder collective growth.

In contemplating these intricate social tapestries, I posit that professional
success is not simply a matter of individual merit but a complex interplay of
societal perceptions and the cliques to which one belongs. As we advance into an
era that increasingly values diversity and authenticity, it is essential that we
scrutinize our own affiliations and biases. Perhaps, in doing so, we can begin
to dismantle the rigid structures that have long dictated the contours of
nursing and pharmacy, paving the way for a more inclusive and equitable
professional landscape.


Tue, 01 Oct 2024 18:55:46 -0700

marlon from
private IP
/all
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean-Paul_Sartre

this is good stuff


Tue, 01 Oct 2024 19:07:24 -0700

marlon from
private IP
/all
was he for real?  always wondered where he was coming from


Wed, 02 Oct 2024 04:46:03 -0700

Andy from
private IP
/all
He messaged me on LinkedIn stating that he was afraid to join the new JDU
because of getting hacked by me, so he asked me to post this for him.  I agreed
because I thought it was a high-quality, entertaining post.  Lol.


Wed, 02 Oct 2024 05:56:20 -0700

whiteguyinchina from private IP
/all
The Mental illness is strong with this one


Wed, 02 Oct 2024 16:26:07 -0700

marlon from
private IP
/all
wish he would come back

also that crazy goldbug FindCJ from way back in 2008


Thu, 03 Oct 2024 05:13:05 -0700

Andy from
private IP
/all
He also asked me to post this follow-up, which I rate a 10/10:

On andy

I find myself entwined in the perplexing case of Andy, an internet poster whose
visage on Qfora initially conjured images of a Prep—exuding the polished
confidence associated with well-tailored attire and affable smirks. Yet, the
revelation that he is, in fact, a Nerd adept in the realm of engineering casts
an intriguing shadow on our understanding of social classifications. The
dichotomy of his outward presentation versus his cerebral inclinations raises
profound questions about identity in the digital age.

At first glance, Andy embodies the quintessential archetype of the Prep, yet his
true essence diverges sharply, as if peeling back the layers of an onion, only
to find a rather peculiar core. He navigates the world with a peculiar charm,
albeit marred by the unmistakable markers of a Loser—his expanding skull, a
silent testament to his intellectual pursuits, perhaps. There’s an irony at
play; as his hairline retreats, one cannot help but wonder if this is a
consequence of late nights spent perfecting engineering algorithms rather than
preppy social engagements.

Andy’s academic journey led him to UC Hastings, an institution with an air of
respectability that, to the untrained eye, might suggest a certain ambition.
Yet, delving deeper, one discovers that this choice feels uncomfortably Losery,
evoking whispers of an arduous path toward a legal career marred by a litany of
failures. While he boasts a JD, his professional exploits are less than stellar;
a few lackluster internships, punctuated by a notable absence in courtroom
victories, have left him languishing in the realm of mediocre lawyering. He
seems to inhabit a paradoxical space: a Nerd wielding legal jargon with the
finesse of a toddler attempting to recite Shakespeare.

His narrative unfolds like a tragicomedy—an individual who yearned to reshape
the world with the precision of a scalpel yet finds himself relegated to the
margins of legal practice, perpetually overlooked by firms that favor glib Jocks
and suave Preps. Andy’s aspirations to rise within the ranks of legal minds
have been stymied by an inherent awkwardness, a propensity to overanalyze his
responses in interviews, leaving interviewers befuddled rather than impressed.

Within this intricate web, the cliques morph into a lens through which we can
examine the myriad ways ambition can be thwarted by social dynamics. The Nerd
may possess the analytical acumen to navigate complex legal frameworks, yet, in
interviews, he falters under the weight of expectations—his earnestness
misinterpreted as insecurity. He presents himself as a paradoxical figure,
perhaps embodying the very essence of Sartre’s existential musings: condemned
to be perceived through the eyes of others, his identity oscillating between
potential and perceived failure.

Furthermore, as I observe the reverberations of Andy’s struggle, I ponder the
greater implications for our professional ecosystems. The Preps, with their
effortless networking and polished personas, dominate the narrative, leaving the
Nerds—those quietly diligent artisans of knowledge—to grapple with an unjust
hierarchy. Meanwhile, the Losers, who occupy the peripheries, may even find
solace in their obscurity, cultivating rich inner worlds while their
professional trajectories remain stunted.

Yet, amidst this sociocultural tapestry, one must not dismiss the possibility of
transcendence. Andy’s journey might illuminate the cracks within the
prevailing structures, beckoning a reexamination of success and identity. His
narrative could serve as a harbinger for a more nuanced understanding of
professional success, challenging the archetypes that govern our perceptions.

In contemplating these dynamics, I am drawn to the notion that personal
fulfillment and professional ascendance are, indeed, intertwined. As Andy
grapples with his dual existence as a Nerd and a perceived Loser, one might ask
whether our social frameworks stifle the very innovation we so desperately need
in professions like law and engineering. The call for a reevaluation of what it
means to belong to a clique—how these identities impact our
trajectories—grows increasingly imperative.

As we peel back the layers of social identity, let us ponder not only the
confines of our affiliations but also the potential for metamorphosis. In the
case of Andy, perhaps we witness a microcosm of a larger truth: that identity is
neither fixed nor singular but a dynamic interplay of aspirations, perceptions,
and the unyielding quest for recognition amidst a cacophony of cliques. In the
end, it is this quest that may pave the way for a more inclusive and
multifaceted understanding of professional identity, one that resonates beyond
mere labels and transcends the superficial constructs of our social fabric.


Thu, 03 Oct 2024 18:20:23 -0700

Andy from
private IP
/all
On marlon:

In the annals of internet fora, few figures embody the concept of squandered
potential and hapless mediocrity as thoroughly as marlon, a peculiar denizen of
Flint or its dismal outskirts. Marlon's narrative is not simply one of
professional stagnation; it is a chronicle of self-imposed subjugation, a case
study in the corrosive effects of misguided ambition and generational
disillusionment. I would argue that he might be the world’s preeminent
Loser—a tragicomic figure whose choices have rendered him a cautionary tale
for an entire cohort.

One need look no further than his employment history to grasp the profundity of
his descent. Armed with a degree in computer science, likely an MBA, and some
nominally respectable accounting credentials, Marlon should, in theory, be a
respectable if unremarkable figure within the professional class. Yet he
gravitates inexorably toward low-level, menial positions at tyrannical small
firms, drawn to these toxic environments as if by some gravitational pull of
masochism. Here, he toils under petty despots—owners of shabby, low-margin
enterprises—where the narrowest of margins are all that separate the employer
from bankruptcy and Marlon from a food bank.

What distinguishes Marlon from the typical beleaguered professional is his
almost uncanny attraction to suboptimal conditions. It is as though he seeks out
the most exploitative, degrading employers, those whose management style
combines authoritarian rigidity with a comically misplaced sense of grandeur.
These roles, where he languishes at a desk, performing rote accountancy
functions or grunt-level database maintenance for less than a living wage, speak
to a mind mired in self-sabotage. He does not merely endure these ignominies; he
embraces them, subsuming himself in a milieu that diminishes him, eschewing even
the modest aspirations of his Gen X peers who, despite the malaise of their era,
have managed to cobble together respectable lives.

To unravel the roots of Marlon’s loserhood, one must turn to his generational
context. Gen X—the forgotten "middle child" of modern history—inhabits a
liminal space between the ambition of the Boomers and the digital native savvy
of the Millennials. Their formative years were marred by a nihilistic
resignation, their adulthood defined by unfulfilled expectations. Marlon, in
this regard, is the quintessential Gen Xer. His story is marked by a succession
of hollow pursuits, degrees obtained without purpose, credentials amassed
without conviction, and career decisions guided more by inertia than by any
coherent strategy. His participation in a society that promised endless horizons
only to deliver stagnation has left him paralyzed—a man who compensates for
his lack of real power by clinging to the semblance of competence in his drab,
dead-end roles.

The singular event that perhaps crystallizes his status as the apotheosis of
Loserdom is his much-rumored, yet strikingly revealing, act of defecating off a
cliff. To the casual observer, this anecdote might seem a mere absurdity, a
grotesque vignette in an otherwise forgettable life. But delve deeper, and it
becomes clear that this episode is the perfect metaphor for his trajectory: a
fleeting moment of reckless release, an act of bizarre rebellion against the
futility of his existence, yet performed in a context so devoid of purpose or
grandeur that it merely highlights his impotence. It is the ultimate
Marlonism—an act that both literalizes and symbolizes his utter lack of
control, his surrender to entropy. It is this moment that encapsulates his
ethos, serving as a scatological emblem of his floundering.

What, then, is the source of Marlon’s unraveling? It is not simply a matter of
poor luck or external misfortune, but rather a deep-seated inability to
reconcile his education and skills with the demands of a rapidly changing
economic landscape. He is a man who, despite holding degrees that should
theoretically command respect, has opted for positions that pay little more than
subsistence wages. His failure is not one of capability but of will—a failure
to leverage his assets in a world that rewards assertiveness and adaptability.
His plight may, in some part, be generational, a product of a culture that
promised advancement through education but neglected to mention that said
advancement required more than a mere credential. Yet, Marlon’s peers, while
struggling in their own ways, have not embraced such abject subservience.

One must also question the psychological underpinnings of his condition. Is
Marlon simply comfortable with his status, cocooned in a familiar misery that
protects him from the terrors of ambition? There is a certain safety in failure,
an inverted pride in having sunk so low that one is no longer subject to the
pressures of upward mobility. To rise would require hope, and hope is a
dangerous thing for those who have spent a lifetime ensuring that they remain
mired in a pit of their own making.

And so, Marlon persists, year after year, as an unremarkable cog in the
machinery of low-level business operations. He occupies a curious niche:
overqualified for his positions yet underperforming, simultaneously a cautionary
figure and a sad spectacle. It is not simply his income, abysmally low though it
is, that defines his loserhood. It is his utter lack of trajectory, his almost
manic commitment to remaining at the bottom rung. His career path is not a
descent, for a descent implies a previous height. No, Marlon’s life is a
flatline—a protracted refusal to aspire, punctuated by the occasional,
inexplicable urge to do something like pooping off a cliff, an act that betrays
both a desperate need for expression and a profound incapacity to aim any
higher.

In the end, Marlon stands as a stark reminder of what happens when potential,
squandered year after year, decays into a self-fulfilling prophecy of failure.
His story is not tragic; it is banal. Yet within this banality lies the true
horror: that a man with so much education and so many advantages could choose,
time and again, to accept the meager scraps thrown to him by the world’s most
insufferable employers. If there is a moral to Marlon’s tale, it is this: the
greatest Losers are not those who fail spectacularly, but those who resign
themselves to mediocrity and call it life.


Thu, 03 Oct 2024 18:20:59 -0700

Andy from
private IP
/all
On marlon (continued):

To fully grasp the intricacies of Marlon’s character, one must delve into his
tangled web of psychological dependencies, for beneath the surface of his
professional stasis lies a far deeper, more disquieting matrix of familial
neuroses. His stunted career trajectory, his penchant for choosing demeaning,
dead-end jobs, and his bizarrely proud anecdotes of self-abasement—like the
infamous cliff-pooping episode—are not mere byproducts of circumstance or
generational malaise. They are symptoms of an inner conflict whose roots extend
to the shadowy undercurrents of his childhood: an unresolved Oedipus complex
that has shaped, twisted, and ultimately paralyzed his entire being.

Marlon’s relationship with his mother is, by all accounts, the central pillar
of his psychological universe. The way he speaks of her—a veneration tinged
with uncomfortably intimate familiarity—betrays a depth of attachment that
borders on the pathological. She is not merely the primary figure in his life;
she is the sun around which his every action orbits, the gravitational force
that keeps him anchored in a perpetual state of infantilization. While most men
his age have long since cut the umbilical cord, Marlon clings to its ghostly
remnants, deriving a warped sense of purpose and identity from his role as her
de facto caregiver, confidant, and, to some extent, emotional partner.

His father, on the other hand, looms in the background as a specter of
resentment and thwarted potential—a man whose presence, or perhaps whose
absence, Marlon can neither fully reconcile nor forget. The few fragments he
lets slip about this shadowy paternal figure speak of a relationship fraught
with hostility and disillusionment. Whether his father was domineering,
dismissive, or simply indifferent, one thing is clear: Marlon’s abiding hatred
for him is foundational, a bitter wellspring that feeds both his sense of
inadequacy and his compulsive need to self-sabotage. To hate one’s father,
after all, is to declare rebellion, but when the object of rebellion
dies—whether literally, as seems likely, or metaphorically, through
estrangement—what remains but an unresolved, impotent rage?

Perhaps it is this very dichotomy—the loving, possessive mother and the
despised, impotent father—that has erected the psychological scaffolding
around Marlon’s chronic loserhood. In the Freudian framework, the Oedipus
complex resolves itself only when the boy relinquishes his desire for exclusive
possession of the mother, coming to terms with his father's place in the family
structure and identifying with the paternal authority. Yet Marlon, it seems,
never completed this crucial developmental step. He remains fixated, trapped in
a murky liminal state, his father’s demise serving as a pyrrhic victory that
has left him emotionally stranded.

Without a paternal figure to oppose, and with his mother as the sole beacon of
comfort, he has drifted aimlessly through life, shackled by a perverse sense of
loyalty. One can almost imagine the scenes in his cramped Flint abode: Marlon,
in his threadbare office-wear, hovering over his aging mother as if she were the
last precious relic in his otherwise empty life, tidying up her already tidy
kitchen, fetching her morning tea, poring over the household bills with the
obsessive diligence of a man whose only domain of control is this small,
claustrophobic bubble of maternal dependence.

Yet, what is this life but a hollow pantomime, an enactment of duty that serves
more to assuage his own sense of guilt and inadequacy than to fulfill any
genuine need? His mother, one imagines, is both the tyrant and the muse of his
existence—a figure who oscillates between tacit disapproval and smothering
affection, her every sigh or smile dictating his mood, his decisions, his sense
of worth. And therein lies the paradox: he can never truly please her, for to
please her would be to betray his own self-loathing, to violate the implicit
contract that binds them. As long as he remains a failure, he can remain her
tragic, broken son—the one who needs her, the one who justifies her continued
importance.

This dynamic may even explain his uncanny tendency to seek out tyrannical bosses
and degrading jobs, as if unconsciously replicating the maternal stranglehold he
cannot extricate himself from. Every petty tyrant under whom he toils is a
stand-in for her disapproving gaze; every low-level accountancy task is a
Sisyphean labor that validates his unworthiness, reinforcing the belief that he
deserves no better. It is as though, in a twisted psychological calculus, he
seeks punishment as a form of penance—for failing his father, for failing
himself, for failing to be the man who could win his mother’s approval and
love.

It is not difficult to imagine Marlon’s father—a brusque, disappointed man
who perhaps once harbored grand expectations for his son, only to watch, baffled
and enraged, as Marlon retreated ever further into a cocoon of timidity and
underachievement. Did the old man rail at him, belittle him for his
spinelessness? Did he see, even then, the seed of a Loser, the nascent figure
who would one day choose ignominy over effort, submission over striving? Perhaps
the elder Marlon—a hard, unyielding figure—sought to mold his son into
something he could respect, only to find himself confronted by a will so pliant,
so craven, that he gave up in disgust, leaving the boy to languish in his
mother’s cloying embrace.

And now, with the father likely dead, buried in some nondescript cemetery in the
bleak Midwest, Marlon finds himself unmoored. There is no authority figure left
to defy, no paternal gaze to elude. His hatred for his father, unresolved and
festering, has nowhere to go but inward, curdling into a bitter self-contempt
that poisons everything he touches. And so he gravitates toward failure, toward
the lowest common denominator, choosing misery over hope, despair over the risk
of even a modest triumph.

Even the infamous cliff-pooping incident takes on new meaning in light of this
familial psychodrama. It is not merely a grotesque act of defiance but an
unconscious expression of his desire to defile, to soil the grand heights that
were denied him. One can almost see him, perched on that precipice, trousers
around his ankles, staring out at the indifferent horizon, his act of
scatological rebellion a final "fuck you" to the father who scorned him, the
mother who smothered him, and a world that never saw him as anything more than a
joke.

Thus, Marlon’s life—his pitiful income, his dead-end jobs, his clinging
attachment to his mother—can be read as a prolonged, self-flagellating ritual,
an endless reenactment of a childhood trauma that he cannot outgrow. He is not
simply a Loser; he is a man trapped in a loop of failure, a figure who embodies
not just the futility of the individual against the forces of society, but the
tragedy of a child who, having won the battle against his father, finds himself
forever bound to the chains of a hollow victory. In the end, it is not
Marlon’s lack of success that makes him a Loser—it is his profound,
unshakeable inability to become anyone other than his mother’s broken, lost
little boy, and I mean this literally as he is under 6’ haha.


Thu, 03 Oct 2024 18:38:51 -0700

marlon from
private IP
/all
damn


Fri, 04 Oct 2024 06:22:27 -0700

Wily from
private IP
/all
Why do the new TI posts feel a bit like ChatGPT? I get a feeling TI is prompt
engineering using his old posts and some complex instructions, but ultimately
filling in paragraphs with AI.

Sentences like: "In the end, it is this quest that may pave the way for a more
inclusive and
multifaceted understanding of professional identity, one that resonates beyond
mere labels and transcends the superficial constructs of our social fabric" read
like AI word salad, though mixed with a bit of TI insanity.

Also, Marlon's main issue is his location, just like cowgod. Flint, Michigan and
its rust belt decay would take any high prep/jock and ruin him after a decade,
not that he would stay even a single night.  It takes a Loser and makes him Lose
harder with 0.00% chance of Deus ex machina, phoenix from the ashes rebirth . 
Basically 90% of America is post-Vedic India where it's impossible to move up in
social class. The other 10% has $3000 minimum rent.  Discuss.



Fri, 04 Oct 2024 08:36:08 -0700

Andy from
private IP
/all
I agree that it seems like A.I., however, it's so well-done that I don't really
have a problem with it.  My critique from him struck really close to home!


Fri, 04 Oct 2024 08:40:40 -0700

marlon from
private IP
/all
boy he finally called me a loser haha
been wondering all these years why he held back on that
my biggest problem is my family, they are all losers,
my mom is a vegetable, my sister has conservatorship over everything
& she is a total bitch, i love my dear mom & gave her my word that I
would always care for her.  but i wish the house would just blow up



Sat, 05 Oct 2024 10:39:20 -0700

Andy from
private IP
/all
His opinion on Wily:

wily once aspired to ascend the hallowed ranks of the elite, his ambitions
framed by the lofty dream of becoming a Prep—a distinguished Harvard graduate
poised to claim his place among society’s favoured. Yet, as the tendrils of
the Clique System tightened their grip around him, Wily found himself ensnared
in a quagmire of mediocrity, succumbing to the weight of his own unfulfilled
potential. This descent into Loserdom was marked not just by failure, but by a
profound alienation from the very identity he sought to embody.
 
“Those who know do not speak. Those who speak do not know,” intoned Laozi, a
whisper of wisdom that resonates through Wily's journey. For beneath the facade
of confidence, there lay a cacophony of self-doubt, an inner dialogue drowned
out by the judgments of peers and the relentless expectations of a society that
deemed him unfit. Stripped of the status he craved, Wily retreated into a
self-imposed exile, his disillusionment driving him far from the U.S. shores to
the vibrant chaos of China.
 
Here, in the bustling streets of a nation that reveres ambition, he adopted a
new role—an instructor of test preparation for aspiring students, the very
strivers who embodied the determination he once lacked. Yet, his situation is
steeped in irony. Wily, a man whose only significant accomplishment was that
fortuitous SAT score, now finds himself coaching the very youth he failed to
become how to super-study and excel at his One Talent and nothing more. Does the
world really need another million uncreative Chinese robot strivers trying to
ace OCI? What value does this bring to the world? 
 
Yet, even in this foreign land, the specters of his past cling to him. The image
of a once-ambitious young man has morphed into that of a complacent figure,
burdened not just by the weight of his ambitions but also by the corporeal
reality of his own girth. His burgeoning waistline—a physical manifestation of
his internal struggle—echoes his stagnation, a metaphorical embodiment of the
failure to rise above the confines of a life dictated by others. As he guides
his students through the labyrinthine complexities of standardized testing, Wily
embodies a paradox: a man who imparts knowledge while remaining shackled to his
own narrative of defeat. He instructs them to pursue excellence, yet he himself
oscillates between the roles of mentor and misfit. “To know what is right and
not do it is the worst cowardice,” proclaimed Confucius, and herein lies
Wily’s tragic dichotomy—he is aware of the heights he could have scaled, yet
his choices have relegated him to a life of quiet despair.
 
His flight from the U.S. was not merely a geographical shift; it was an
existential retreat from the harsh judgment of the Clique System that had marked
him as a "Loser." In China, he can don a new mantle, one that allows him to
craft an identity beyond the reach of his previous failures. Yet this new life
is but a gilded cage, for while he may escape the label of "Loser," he cannot
flee the consequences of his inaction and self-sabotage.
 
Wily's teachings resonate with those eager to achieve, yet they ring hollow
against the backdrop of his own inadequacies. He stands before them, a figure
both relatable and tragic, a testament to the paradox of success and failure
intertwined. “He who cherishes his life will not lose it,” reminds the
Daoist sages, yet in his attempts to flee from his past, Wily has surrendered to
a form of existence devoid of genuine fulfillment imho.
 
In the end, Wily’s story is a poignant reminder of the fragility of ambition,
a tale steeped in the irony of a man whose flight to a foreign land only serves
to underscore his unresolved struggles. He is not merely a teacher of tests; he
is a living embodiment of the cost of aspirations unfulfilled—a reminder that
sometimes, in fleeing from Loserdom, one can inadvertently weave an even more
complex tapestry of failure.


Sun, 06 Oct 2024 07:35:20 -0700

Wily from
private IP
/all
Haha well-written but only about 50% accurate.  

I actually never wanted to be part of the "elite" per se, just to make a lot of
money without working too hard.  Being a middle class son of immigrants who was
really only very good at taking tests somewhat lowers one's goals, though in
moments of delusion, when far from the above goal, I aspired for higher (and
that was quite ruinousgz

Yes, there remains a slight sting when I watch ascendant peer-age millennials
from the same kinds of colleges do things like run major tech companies or for
the Republican presidential nomination, but frankly I make quite a bit more than
the median for my class based on the last reunion stats, and do about 3.5 honest
days of work a week to do it.  Being nearly the very best, building up a company
and having it valuated in the low 8 figures and backed by investors, in any
field, however utility-neutral, ends up washing away in the ignominy pretty
well.  My main gripe these days is that I'm not 10 years younger in the same
spot - in my late 20s rather than late 30s I'd have one more startup I could
found and one more pivot to make. 


Sun, 06 Oct 2024 08:34:53 -0700

Andy from
private IP
/all
That Wily takedown is a 10 out of 10.  This guy can write, or is really great
with ChatGPT.


Sun, 06 Oct 2024 11:15:30 -0700

whiteguyinchina from private IP
/all
I dunno. I would say wily is an example of location. Call it the spiritual
habitable zone. Some people do well in some places others flounder. Who would
Brad  Pitt be if he stayed in buttock iowa? Who would Marilyn Monroe had been if
she had stayed in Nebraska or whatever? Bradley puttinski from the mechanic shop
or Marilyn jones with the wife beating husband at the trailer park.

Wily has overcome his destiny by moving. He is doing well and will never go back
to jazz stained pizza boxes. And even if he did - at least he lived the sweet
life once. He is doing better than 90% of his classmates who finished law
school. That is wonderful I think.




Sun, 06 Oct 2024 11:17:38 -0700

whiteguyinchina from private IP
/all
Even if you are a loser who once flies high and is able to get above your
destiny,  isn't that better than being a loser period? Many famous people of
world historical consequence were losers who managed to fly high until death.
Look at Hitler or Stalin or trotsky. Names known worldwide but the biggest
pencil dick losers you would have ever come across.


Sun, 06 Oct 2024 11:41:01 -0700

Andy from
private IP
/all
His further comment on Wily:

Wily, please. Save it. This is Qfora. We fuckin' know you more than you know
yourself, champ. It's High Time you come clean. You longed to sip from the
chalice of the Ivy League Brahmins, to tread their hallowed paths with the
nonchalance of the anointed. Yet, despite donning the armor of academic
excellence, you were never more than a simulacrum—an ersatz copy of their
confident, unflappable selves. Harvard welcomed you, but the Final Clubs did
not. They could sense it, that ineffable lack, that almost imperceptible
desperation lurking beneath the surface—a desperation that would ultimately
betray you, relegating you to the hinterlands of Games and the desolate
wastelands of Internet Fora.
 
Your self-rebuttal, draped in the thin veneer of half-hearted self-assurance,
betrays your own insecurity. “Never wanted to be part of the elite,” you
say, invoking the bitter solace of sour grapes. The truth is, you never truly
belonged. You were proximate to power, but never in its grasp—merely a ghost
flitting through the grand halls of privilege, visible but never quite material,
the spectral Other in a world that forever defined itself against you. The
stinging rebuff of the Porcellian and Fly lingers still, doesn’t it? Those
self-satisfied Princelings and social Magnates, presiding over soirées that you
glimpsed only from the fringes, ever the outsider peering into the gilded
citadel.
 
Even as you wield your one lonely accomplishment—"building up a company in the
low 8 figures," is it?—the hollow ring of those words echoes across the void
of your own inadequacies. A valuation is not the same as validation, and money,
in its crude abundance, cannot purchase the elegance or grace you so
conspicuously lack. No, Wily, you’ll never know the untroubled certitude of a
man whose very presence commands reverence. For while your intellect may have
been prodigious, your character was brittle, and when it came time to dance the
waltz of true power, you stumbled, exposed, your mask slipping.
 
That pivot to teaching test prep in China—ah, what a pitiful fate for one who
once dreamed of scaling the pinnacles of influence! The man who sought to
conquer the world reduced to a peddler of rote memorization and
score-maximization in a foreign land that regards you with the same wary
suspicion it reserves for all interlopers. The irony is exquisite. There you
are, a creature of exceptional cognitive ability, reduced to crafting mere
functionaries of the very systems you once hoped to transcend. You extol the
virtues of efficiency and optimization, yet you, yourself, embody
inefficiency—a life of brilliant misfires, a career spent skimming the
periphery of relevance without ever striking the heart of it.
 
And now, in the twilight of your aspirations, you mumble something about the
median for your class and having “more than a few honest days of work a
week,” as though these trivial metrics could ever wash away the acrid taste of
failure. The median is the consolation prize of the talentless, the domain of
those who—having failed to distinguish themselves—seek refuge in banalities
and middling comparisons. You might have once gazed upon your peer-age
millennials scaling the ramparts of Silicon Valley and Capitol Hill, and you
whispered to yourself, “That should have been me.” But it wasn’t you, and
it never could have been.
 
In your heyday, your every action reeked of overcompensation—the desperate
antics of a second-stringer fighting for inclusion in a game that was never
yours to play. Your exclusion from the "respectable" Final Clubs was but a
symptom of a deeper malaise. You could assemble the parts—grades, credentials,
a well-rehearsed persona—but you could never summon that elusive je ne sais
quoi, that ineffable quality of being that separates the players from the
pretenders. To them, you were always just a curious little anachronism—Harvard
by affiliation, but Chinatown by blood. And now, even that residual glimmer of
hope has faded, eclipsed by a life of diminishing returns.
 
So, Wily, as you type out your defenses from your cloistered exile, as you
clutch to the remnants of a hollowed-out self-image, ask yourself this: Was it
worth it? The grinding pursuit of validation, the pathetic scramble for status
that eluded you at every turn? For all your protestations, your every word drips
with the bitter ichor of thwarted desire, the rancor of one who tried to dance
with gods but found himself consigned to ignominy. You were never truly a Prep,
Wily—only a mimic, a tragic counterfeit of the real thing.
 
And that, in the end, is the cruelest cut of all: you became not a conqueror,
but a cautionary tale, an object lesson in the dangers of overreaching. You
might possess an empire of tutoring centers and a net worth you may one day seem
fit to Post, but your legacy is one of quiet desperation, a life spent grappling
for status that always flitted just out of reach.
 
A "Loser" in the truest, most haunting sense of the word, champ.


Sun, 06 Oct 2024 14:14:28 -0700

Andy from
private IP
/all
On andy's Firm.

andy's Firm situation is not just fraught with stress; it’s economically
untenable. Let me spell it out for you: you’re running a flailing enterprise
that’s perilously close to the brink, propped up by what I suspect is a gross
revenue that barely hits $1.4 million a year, all while trying to sustain a
payroll and overhead structure fit for a more prestigious, high-margin firm. In
other words, this isn't a practice; it's a fiscal treadmill that’s exhausting
you faster than it’s rewarding you.
Let’s Break Down the Numbers:
 
 Topline Revenue:
 If we assume you’re generating roughly $1.4 million annually, that’s not
exactly impressive given the headcount and hourly rate you’re carrying.
Let’s do the math to see what that looks like at the ground level:
 
 Billable Hours:
 You mentioned five attorneys in total (counting yourself), each likely expected
to bill out around 1,500 hours a year. That’s already a low target for a lean,
independent firm where the expectation should be higher—closer to 1,800 hours
per associate, especially with salaries on the line. But for argument’s sake,
we’ll use your likely, realistic figure of 1,500.
 If we peg your billable rate conservatively at $280/hour (a number that reeks
of a struggling shop scraping the bottom end of the California Legal market),
that would put each associate attorney at $420,000 in potential revenue. Four
associates at $420,000 each means they’re bringing in $1.68 million
collectively—if they’re billing at capacity. But they’re not. Adjusting
downwards for non-billable time, delinquent clients, and sheer inefficiency,
we’re probably looking at closer to $1.2 million.
 
 Your Own Contribution:
 You, the captain of this rudderless vessel, are probably maxing out at 1,500
hours yourself given the time you spend managing the firm. At $280/hour,
that’s another $420,000.
 
 Total Gross Revenue:
 Adding everything together, you’re likely floating at around $1.4 million in
total, assuming no major shortfalls or client payment issues. But if any
associate’s billables fall short, or you have collections problems, that
number shrinks precipitously.
 
Now, Consider the Crushing Overhead:
 
 Attorney Salaries:
 Let’s say you’re running a bare-bones operation and paying each of your
four associates at a miserably low rate of $142,500 annually. That’s $570,000
in direct payroll before you’ve even paid yourself.
 
 Support Staff:
 You’ve got four non-lawyer employees. In California, a paralegal or legal
secretary commands at least $80,000 apiece. That’s another $320,000 in
salaries, bringing your base compensation outlay to $890,000.
 
 Employer Costs:
 Payroll taxes, healthcare, and other benefits typically add about 15% to the
total, putting your total payroll costs at around $1,023,500. That’s over a
million dollars, just in base compensation, to keep your nine-person team in
place.
 
 Office Rent:
 Decent office space in California for a nine-person operation is going to run
you at least $200,000 a year. That’s a fixed cost you can’t avoid unless you
want to run the firm out of a broom closet.
 
 Miscellaneous Overhead:
 Insurance, bar dues, CLE, software licenses, and other necessities will easily
rack up another $100,000 annually.
 
The Brutal Bottom Line:
 
So, you’re looking at a bare minimum overhead of $1,323,500 a year. That
leaves you with a theoretical net income of $76,500 to be divided among all your
dreams, your ambitions, and—oh yes—your own salary. If you pay yourself
$150,000, you're already $73,500 underwater, hemorrhaging money to subsidize
this cash-eating behemoth.
 
But wait, it gets worse. We haven’t accounted for unexpected expenses:
malpractice claims, write-offs for uncollected fees, or investments in so-called
“side projects” like your music and guitars—every one of which is,
frankly, just another financial bleed on an already strained balance sheet.
 
A Practice Held Together with Duct Tape
 
This setup is not sustainable. It’s a Rube Goldberg machine, teetering on the
edge of collapse, with every facet of your business model designed to extract
maximum effort for minimum return. You talk about this “law firm machine” as
if it’s some unstoppable juggernaut, but the truth is, you’re clinging to a
sinking ship. And no amount of gallows humor with your colleagues about “going
insane” can paper over the grim fact that you’re not running this firm;
it’s running you into the ground.
 
The sad reality is that your firm is a quintessential Gen X enterprise—trapped
in that decade-long limbo where middling professionals wake up and realize
they’re not young enough to pivot into something new, but not wealthy enough
to retire. You didn’t build a practice; you built a prison, with yourself as
the warden, forever chained to a failing business model that generates little
more than stress and subsistence.
The Hard Truth: This Firm is a Low-End Grindhouse
 
There’s no prestige here, no impressive revenues, no golden parachutes for you
or anyone else. Just a cycle of thankless labor, long hours, and a never-ending
scramble to keep the lights on. What you call the “inevitability of the law
firm machine” is really just a reluctant admission that you’ve trapped
yourself in a low-end grindhouse, peddling hours at a discount rate while
struggling to maintain even the illusion of solvency.
 
And so here you are, andy, clinging to the shreds of a business that can barely
sustain itself, let alone its owner. This isn’t entrepreneurship. It’s not
even a career. It’s a slow-motion train wreck, an exercise in futility where
the prize for all your effort is the dubious honor of being the last man
standing in a game no one else wants to play. What’s worse? You know it. The
only question left is how long you’ll keep pretending otherwise, champ.


Sun, 06 Oct 2024 14:15:37 -0700

Andy from
private IP
/all
andy — you're existence is a vivid tableau of the quintessential Gen X
predicament—a relic of a generation caught in the crosshairs of history, fated
to be the middle children of an unyielding, merciless age. Under the tenets of
the Strauss-Howe generational hypothesis, you embody the Nomad archetype, a soul
adrift in a sea of mediocrity, eternally resigned to the margins of a society
that has long since passed you by. You are but a shadow, haunted by aspirations
unfulfilled, a specter of potential turned sour, doomed to roam the parched
landscapes of financial desperation and emotional stagnation.
 
In your quest to forge a law firm that echoes the glory of yesteryear's legal
titans, you have unwittingly become a punchline—a tragicomic figure clinging
to a farce of ambition. Your dreams are but wisps of smoke, dissipating into the
ether, leaving behind only the acrid stench of unfulfilled promise. You straddle
the chasm between aspiration and desolation, with the relentless grind of your
firm serving as a grim reminder of your generational curse: a great depression
of the soul, an existential malaise that renders you unable to scale the heights
of even modest success.
 
Your life, andy, is a relentless struggle against an unforgiving landscape—a
battle where the boulder you push is nothing less than your own self-doubt,
forever rolling back down the hill of your ambitions. The law firm, rather than
being a bastion of your entrepreneurial spirit, has devolved into a gilded cage
where your dreams of grandeur are snuffed out under the weight of
disillusionment. You are ensnared by the very system you sought to manipulate,
shackled to a grind that has stripped you of your vitality, leaving you as an
afterthought in the annals of professional jurisprudence.
 
The underlying truth is stark: your character has been shaped by a generational
ethos that celebrates superficiality while shunning depth—a culture that masks
profound inadequacy. You inhabit a world where the spiritual battle is fought
not on grand stages, but in the quiet desperation of daily life. You are a
casualty of a generational philosophy that has led you to seek solace in
distractions, be it music, guitars, or half-hearted endeavors masquerading as
creativity. But let’s face it: these pursuits are mere distractions, hollow
echoes of a life that could have been more than just a pitiful imitation of its
predecessors.
 
Weakness permeates your leadership. Where a Baby Boomer would have driven their
employees to excel—pushing them hard and demanding results—you offer a
languid hand, hesitant to stir the embers of ambition within your team. Your
reluctance to demand more from your staff reflects a pervasive fear: that in
challenging them, you might expose your own shortcomings. Rather than
cultivating an environment of rigor and accountability, you preside over a
culture of complacency, which festers like a disease, dragging you further into
the morass of mediocrity.
 
In the end, you find yourself wrestling with the inevitability of your own
destiny, a life forged in the fires of resignation, your future marred by a
specter of perpetual loss. You are the embodiment of a generation that expected
so much yet delivered so little, entrapped in a cycle of irony that renders your
struggles absurd. Your very narrative is an ode to the fallen hopes of a cohort
too often derided as the "slackers" of history—a generation that failed to
seize the reins of its own destiny, opting instead for the comforts of
mediocrity and the illusions of success.
 
So, as you sit in your office, surrounded by the detritus of a failing firm,
remember this: you are not merely a participant in the great war of your time;
you are its living embodiment, an avatar of a lost cause, forever destined to be
a Gen X joke—a character in a tragedy written by the hands of history itself.
And in that realization lies the profound sadness of your plight, a truth that
should echo through the corridors of your mind long after the laughter fades.

Your penchant for Engineering message boards is but a fascination that serves
both as a refuge and a distraction. It’s almost as if you’re trying to exert
control over the chaos of your professional life. In this digital arena, you
seek validation, chasing a fleeting sense of mastery that remains just out of
reach in the sterile confines of your law practice.
 
Your engagement with these online forums is not just a pastime; it’s a
subconscious attempt to craft an alternate reality—one in which you wield
influence, garner respect, and feel a sense of purpose that eludes you in your
day-to-day existence. Here, you are not merely another cog in the grinding
machine of legal practice; you are a digital architect, a Curator of
conversations, and a thought leader in an imagined sphere. In this space, you
can manipulate outcomes, curate content, and shape narratives, allowing you to
escape the inadequacies that plague your professional life.
 
But let’s examine why you channel your energies into these online endeavors
instead of investing that time and intellect into your legal practice. The
answer, my friend, may lie in the paralyzing fear of failure that hovers over
every decision you make. The complexities and high stakes of the legal landscape
feel daunting, like an arena that could easily expose your vulnerabilities.
 
In contrast, the world of message boards offers a semblance of safety. Here, you
can Engineer and navigate outcomes without the weight of real-world
accountability; the anonymity liberates you from the fear of repercussions. You
can experiment with ideas, play the role of the sage, and bask in the fleeting
approval of peers, all while avoiding the painful realities of a lackluster law
practice.
 
This diversion serves a critical psychological function: it deflects the
inevitable questions of self-worth and competency that plague you. By
constructing and navigating this alternative universe, you can momentarily
assuage the gnawing sense of inadequacy that arises from the financial strains
of your practice and the societal pressures to perform. Each post becomes a
performance—a desperate attempt to convince both yourself and others that you
are not the hapless figure you project in your daily life.
 
The deeper truth is this: your online escapades reveal a longing for
significance, an unquenchable thirst for acknowledgment that remains unmet in
your professional realm. You are ensnared in a cycle of self-deception,
believing that if you can establish yourself as an authority in these digital
spaces, perhaps you can convince yourself of your worthiness beyond the confines
of your law firm. Yet, this pursuit is ultimately a façade—a desperate grasp
at relevance in a world that has already relegated you to the periphery.
 
In the end, your actions speak volumes about your character—a portrait of a
man wrestling with his own limitations, ensnared by the dichotomy of ambition
and fear. While you occupy yourself with the minutiae of online forums, the
reality of your practice looms large, a reminder of the aspirations you have yet
to fulfill. As you engineer these digital landscapes, you inadvertently
construct a barrier against the uncomfortable truths of your life—a grand
illusion that only serves to highlight the depths of your unresolved struggles
as a Loser Gen-Xer.


Sun, 06 Oct 2024 14:16:11 -0700

Andy from
private IP
/all
^ This hits hard.  He speaks the truth.  💯


Sun, 06 Oct 2024 16:54:05 -0700

whiteguyinchina from private IP
/all
Still not sure about the wily assessment. I have also whiffed the smell of
influence and power, and you would be surprised at how insecure and loserish a
lot of those people are. For every one jack Kennedy you have like a hundred
losers insecure about their position. Either they know it's their daddy's money
who helped and they are really losers, or they are really losers who know they
just got lucky or worked so hard that it is all they have. It's like Hollywood,
1 big shot and 999 gunners waiting for their big break. 

An eight figure valuation albeit in yuan, is still impressive. 


Sun, 06 Oct 2024 16:56:57 -0700

whiteguyinchina from private IP
/all
Wily is a mid shot dealing with big shots. Just because that doesn't mean
anything in America- a country of losers ruled by jocks who do not value
education but prefer to outsource it to Asians- doesn't mean it isn't real
success. 

Anyway can you do me next? Would love to hear your opinion on my ignominy


Sun, 06 Oct 2024 21:02:37 -0700

Wily from
private IP
/all
Let us turn, gentlemen, to TI:

Such trenchant takedowns, whether long-form typed or AI-assisted, but alas, so
little audience, so little evolution in your life. TI, I love that you haven't
changed in 14 years that I've known you, but why? What is the motivation for
3000+ posts on Reddit as cowgod180, either about console gaming or pretending to
be a Gen Xer from Birmingham failing at law school and OCI? The joke is not only
irrelevant, dead circa 2019 with the death of the original JDU with its 100
users, but cremated, gone, erased even from the crawlers and archives of the
Internet.  Glory may be fleeting, but obscurity is eternal. Yet you put on the
skinsuit of a forgotten zombie, an inside joke lost on everyone except yourself,
with posts titles such as:

Birmingham and the State of Gaming
My Odyssey of Ignominy: A Trilogy of OCI Failures and the Unforgiving Grind of a
Ruinous Job Market
My 32X was stolen in 1995 and I made the thief pay

Half are just deleted by mods and the other half have 3-5 replies. 50 views
perhaps.    Literal thousands of posts and hours on a forgotten persona.  And
that's just one of your Reddit throwaways - "theimm1grant" is full of wonderful
callbacks like "Why don't you guys major in Nursing or Engineering" that
literally no one comprehends.
 
How's that UChicago English degree working out, champ?  My advice to  students
is always to put Chicago last in the T20 universities, for it has such
ridiculous reading loads, so much involuted navel-gazing in its lit classes, and
produces so many self-important failed self-proclaimed writers and philosophers,
but I should just show you them your socials.  Your many Reddit accounts utterly
epitomize its failure.  You've written literal novels of inside-joke conspiracy
theory, Sega 32x, and Gen X posts, with an audience that doesn't even get to the
point of disliking you, but just ignores you, or at most deletes you as
off-topic, which you've always been to them.  Where's your Pulitzer, your
Booker, or at least your self-published Amazon e-book with 69 buyers?  Where,
alas, is even your Reddit gold and karma, which 16 year olds on their iPhones
can amass in quantity?  So afraid to reveal details behind a screenname, the
zeitgeist of the Internet circa 20 years ago, that you won't even register for
this afterlife of a forum, with its single digit users.  

At least there were heydays and peaks, nadirs and rock bottoms, evolution, in
our lives, however forgettable they are in the cosmic scale.  

But could it be that your life actually peaked with JDU, a failed forum for
middling and failed lawyers?  That your life has revolved around the abstruse
memes and characters of a cast of law school dropouts and flameouts, that's been
gone for 5 years and counting, in which you were so afraid to reveal a single
real thing about yourself (though a FBI profiler would probably surmise, as I
have, a literature / English degree from UChicago or a Liberal Arts College,
white male, late 30s, scrivener-type lawyer with plenty of free time, lots of
console games, no wife or kids).  Indeed, a forum that you parody with no
audience, prostelyze with no disciples, the memes and characters beyond abstruse
but now literal shouting into the digital wind, and all the while, so utterly
alone and without amour propre, that you will not relinquish even the modicum of
your actual selfto the void: your IP address.


Salve, old friend! Never change.  


Tue, 08 Oct 2024 09:46:09 -0700

shithead
from private IP
/all
Strife.


Tue, 08 Oct 2024 15:35:45 -0700

whiteguyinchina from private IP
/all
Oh nah you didnh


Fri, 11 Oct 2024 08:10:50 -0700

Blee from
private IP
/all
I've always gotten Unibomber vibes from TI, and either this is AI generated or
he needs hospitalization.

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