.
asks the one in the $9 Craigslist chair,
legs crossed like a philosopher
mid-way through a YouTube binge
on dark matter
and dopamine fasting.
He thinks it’s profound.
It’s not.
It’s a shrug in a trench coat.
A crisis dressed up in code.
An old fear wearing digital cologne.
If this is a simulation—
what the **** are we simulating?
Heartbreak?
Minimum wage despair?
The number of times I check my phone
hoping it’s her?
Is it
a stress test for gods,
a beta for consciousness,
a joke?
Because if someone coded this—
they should be fired.
Or worshipped.
Or sued.
Where’s the patch notes,
the exit key,
the server room in the sky?
Where’s the moment it glitches
and someone finally says,
“Oops, our bad—
you weren’t meant to feel
all of that.”
You talk about the veil of illusion
but you still cry in parking lots.
You still ghost your therapist.
You still love people
who don’t text back.
You bleed,
you ache,
you spiral—
whether you’re made of atoms
or ******* pixels.
Your god wears headphones.
Your sacred text is a Stack Overflow thread.
Your heaven is a loading screen.
Your hell is just
Monday.
You pray in 1080p
to a silent DevOps deity
who hasn’t pushed an update
since the Bronze Age.
This isn’t philosophy.
It’s cosplay for cowards.
It’s a way to sound deep
without touching dirt.
Without risking faith.
Without changing anything.
Because if it’s a sim,
you don’t have to care.
If it’s a sim,
you don’t have to try.
You can just sit there,
scrolling.
Wondering if the fire
is ray-traced.
But here, the only questions that matter:
Does it hurt?
Do you love?
Can you lose?
Because if the answer is yes—
you’re in it.
Whatever it is.
Simulation or not.
I have no objections to simulation theory.
The idea doesn’t offend me, challenge me, or keep me up at night.
But the way people use it—
to avoid meaning, to dodge responsibility, to slap a silicon face on old human questions—
that’s the rot I came to scrape out.
If the theory inspires you to live with more wonder, more purpose, more curiosity?
Good.
But if it’s just your newest excuse to sit in the dark
and call it depth—
I wrote this for you
—-
I don’t object to simulation theory.
I object to what it’s become.
I object to the way it’s wielded—
not as a lens,
but as a crutch.
Not to elevate wonder,
but to escape consequence.
A lazy man’s metaphysics,
an atheist’s afterlife without stakes,
a Redditor’s way of sounding like they’ve read Plato
without ever having to bleed like him.
⸻
I don’t mind if this is code.
But code doesn’t absolve you.
The simulation doesn’t change the taste of grief.
Doesn’t mute your mother’s voice.
Doesn’t make your failures less yours.
If you’re still broke,
still starving for affection,
still clinging to a memory that won’t call back—
then congratulations:
it’s real enough.
The texture of suffering is not theoretical.
⸻
And yet I see you,
parading this theory around
like a get-out-of-meaning-free card.
You want the permission to disengage.
You want the illusion of knowing
so you never have to act.
You wear this idea like armor,
but inside it, you’re hollow.
You never went to war.
You just cosplayed philosophy
and called it courage.
⸻
Let’s be honest—
most of you don’t care if it’s real or not.
You just don’t want to feel stupid
for wasting your life.
So you slap a label on it.
You say it’s all a sim.
As if that makes your apathy profound.
⸻
But if this really is a simulation,
the insult isn’t that it’s fake.
It’s that you wasted your one shot
to matter inside it.
⸻
I don’t care what this is made of.
I care what you are made of.
And if all you can do is point at the veil
and call it interesting—
you’re not asking a question.
You’re just running from an answer.