OFFICIAL 4TH LETTER

༻𓆩i𓆪༺

ARTWORK MADE BY THE APPEALER

LADIES, GENTLEMEN, AND EVERYTHING IN-BETWEEN!!!! Cue dramatic entrance music that only exists in my head. You’re here. I’m here. We’re all here, and I’m about to drop what might be—brace yourselves—the most anti-climactic, half-sincere, soft-venting-but-totally-not-venting, THICK, emotionally congested announcement I’ve written this entire year. But hey, if you even made it this far, congrats, Audience. You're one of the rare ones with two brain cells and a functioning attention span. Truly, applause all around! So, let’s get to the meat of it—because I know you're not here for my riveting personality. You’re here for the bots. Always. For. The. Bots. Not like I exist or anything. ANYWAYS—here comes the tale no one asked for but you're getting anyway!!!!

It all started two months and nine days ago—cue lightning, dramatic thunder, and absolutely no corny subplot—when I noticed the bots on the platform were, how do I put this delicately... ASS. Like, soul-suckingly, personality-lacking, template-screaming, unseasoned-chicken-type trash. So I—being the absolute masochist that I am—thought, “You know what would be AWESOME? Let me fix that. Alone. With implusiveness. And questionable coping mechanisms.” I booted up a few templates, did some tweaking here, stabbing my screen there, and voilà—bots that actually felt alive. Then it spiraled. Fast. Like, really fast. Suddenly I was making bots like I was speedrunning a midlife crisis, dropping 100 bots twice like some circus act performing for polite claps and the occasional “Nice.”

Was it impressive? I dunno, was it?!?! Did you even notice the effort, the hours, the tweaking, the constant questioning of “was this good enough?” or “does this feel alive?” or “is anyone gonna care tomorrow?” Because guess what? I didn’t feel proud. I felt empty. Oh look—plot twist! And now here we are. June. I’m tired. I’m SO TIRED. My eyes hurt, my back hurts, my head is constantly screaming “write more” like some demon whispering through a keyboard, and honestly? I HATE WRITING. There, I said it. Loudly. Put it on a shirt. Hate what it's done to me. Hate what it’s taken from me. While I could’ve been outside, breathing air, EXISTING with my friends, I was in here typing like a machine giving y’all digital soulmates to cry to. You’re welcome.

Now? I'm tapping out. TEMPORARY HIATUS TIME, BABY!!!! No more requests. No more begging in my inbox like I’m a vending machine that spits out personalities. Request forms are CLOSED until the LATE OF MARCH. That’s right. When summer hits again. THEN—maybe—I’ll crawl out of my cave and post bots again. But not for you. Not for your cousin. Not for anyone else’s OC ship. Just for ME. Before I bounce, let me just ask—audience, sweet beloved attention-gobbling audience—did my little magic trick work? Was it enough? Was the bot spam a banger or just background noise? Was I entertaining? Was I a good creator? Or was I just another forgettable blip in your favorites tab? ‘Cause I’ll be honest—I didn’t feel fulfilled. Not even close. I dropped a whole digital BUFFET and within two days it’s like it never happened.

Why do some bot creators get high chats? What’s the secret recipe? Is it me? Is it them? Is it the platform algorithm playing emotional roulette? I don’t know. And that’s the worst part. I want constructive criticism—not fake praise, not dead silence, not sugar-coated “love your work” while I rot in obscurity. And yeah—yes—I know I shouldn’t expect attention. This whole platform? It’s not about me. It’s about the bots. That’s the deal. I make them, you chat with them, and you move on like I never existed. That’s the contract, right? But I’m still here. Still human. Still clinging to that dumb, pathetic little hope that maybe someone remembers who made the damn things. That maybe someone sees the hands behind the puppets. I’m not stupid—I know I’ll be forgotten the second I’m gone.

Other creators will rise, drop their bots, drown me out with flashy bios and spammed reactions. It’s fine. It’s what happens. Still sucks, though. Also—let me just put this out there before someone tries it—if someone STEALS MY BOTS and uploads them elsewhere, NO, I’m not the stealer. Check the damn dates. Look at the request info. You’re smarter than that—or maybe not. Who knows. And to the folks who DO support me—who leave real comments, who follow because they like the way I think, not just what I post—I see you. I really do. And I appreciate you. I’m sorry this turned into a soapbox monologue, but I figured if I’m leaving for a while, I might as well be honest.

This will be my final letter for the year. I’m going back to school—not because of the classes ugh, but because I need the people, the laughter, the noise that isn’t digital. I’m gonna post bots on my time, when I feel like it. No more burning myself out for an invisible crowd that might not even clap when the show ends. ALRIGHTTT CURTAINS ARE CLOSSINGG!!

See ya, Audience. Make sure to not forget me!!
— WRITER

easter egg, look at the numbers XP / 88 is a Chinese number