Should we be concerned about Spidey?

Bro, I’m not even gonna lie, this shit is weird. A few years ago I remember seeing Spidey’s Twitter and she had Cal from Zero Day as her profile picture. At first I thought, whatever, she probably just likes the movie.

Then later I see Randy Stair as her profile picture. Like, bro… what are we doing here? At that point, it starts looking less like some random edgy shit and more like there might actually be something going on.

I’m not saying I have absolute proof, but realistically, it’s pretty plausible that she’s a Columbiner. I mean, you’ve got Cal from Zero Day, then Randy Stair, two things that are pretty damn specific. Maybe there’s an explanation for it, but come on you can’t tell me that doesn’t raise some questions.

So is anyone else aware of this? Has anyone actually looked into her history or found anything connecting her to Columbiner communities? Because this is weird as hell

https://preview.redd.it/1u832sb8t8kh1.png?width=562&format=png&auto=webp&s=7afd9034d50ed96fab42088978ca704c9a96e368

When I was around 15 or 16, I got to a point where I seriously considered shooting up my own school. I was being bullied by teachers and classmates, and it pushed me so far that I started thinking about killing myself too. I was thinking about getting AKs, a shotgun, and maybe a pistol, and I actually got close to going through with it.

But at some point I stopped and realized what I was about to do. I realized that if I went through with it, I would be making a permanent decision that I could never take back. No matter how badly I had been treated, I knew there was no undoing something like that.

Now I'm 23 years old, and I'm still alive. I'm going through a pretty tough time right now, but I'm trying to keep going and hoping things eventually get better. I'm a school dropout, and my life definitely didn't turn out the way I expected it to, but I'm still here.

Imagine dating someone for over a year, only to realize you never truly knew them.

Back in 2024, I dated a Polish girl for over a year. At first, I thought everything was going well, but over time the relationship completely fell apart. Whenever I needed emotional support, she would tell me to go talk to someone else. Instead of being there for me, she'd rather go partying, attend concerts, and spend time with everyone else. It felt like having more friends mattered more to her than talking to me, her own boyfriend.

Then, when it came time for us to finally meet, she suddenly changed her mind. She told me she didn't want to anymore because she was worried it would end up like what happened with one of her former friends. I told her, "Don't compare me to your ex-friend. I'm not that person." But she kept comparing me anyway.

That was one of the things that hurt me the most. Instead of judging me for who I actually was, she judged me based on someone else's actions.

Eventually, she barely talked to me at all. Whenever I came up around her friends, it felt like she'd rather change the subject than acknowledge me. I never understood why. I never cheated on her, lied to her, or mistreated her. All I ever did was care about her, love her, and try to make the relationship work.

Looking back, I realize the relationship was completely one-sided. I gave my time, my loyalty, and my heart to someone who never truly appreciated any of it. No one deserves to feel like they're never a priority in a relationship. That's a lesson I had to learn the hard way. and let's not forget that she is bisexual and a liberal people from these Communities are toxic and cheaters and even horrible

20 أكتوبر 2025.
جاؤوا إلى منزلي وكأن الأمر روتيني—لأنه بالنسبة لهم كذلك.

رجال يحملون السلطة في جيوبهم، والترهيب في ملامحهم. لم يكونوا بحاجة إلى سبب. هم لا يحتاجون إليه أبداً. يأخذون ما يريدون، ثم ينتظرون—بصبر—أن تتصرف. لأن اللحظة التي تقاوم فيها، تُكتب القصة كما يريدونها. تصبح أنت المشكلة… وليس هم.

لقد سمعت هذه القصة من قبل.

والدي عاشها في الثمانينيات، حين كان الخوف يرتدي زياً مختلفاً، لكنه يتبع النص نفسه. ضابط يضغط، يستفز، يحاصر رجلاً في منزله حتى لا يبقى أمامه خيار سوى الدفاع عن نفسه. وبمجرد أن يفعل… يصبح كل شيء مبرراً. تُصادر الممتلكات، تُمحى الحياة، يُسرق كل شيء. المنزل، المال، الذهب. عمرٌ كامل يتحول إلى صمت.

عقدٌ مختلف… والطريقة نفسها.

تبدأ بملاحظة النمط بعد فترة. السلطة لا تتغير—بل تغيّر لغتها فقط. بالأمس كانت ديكتاتورية. واليوم تُسمّي نفسها شيئاً آخر. لكن العادات؟ تبقى كما هي. ترهيب. فساد. سرقة من أولئك الذين يملكون أقل ما يخسرونه.

ثم يتساءلون لماذا يتصدع البلد.

لماذا يفقد الناس الثقة. لماذا تظهر الجماعات المسلحة. لماذا ينمو الغضب في الأماكن التي كان يسكنها الأمل. يتفاجؤون وكأن هذا لم يُبنَ خطوةً خطوة، وقراراً بعد قرار، على مدى أجيال.

لكن لا شيء في هذا مفاجئ.

لا يمكنك الضغط على الناس إلى الأبد وتتوقع منهم الصمت. لا يمكنك إعادة كتابة القصة نفسها وتتوقع نهاية مختلفة. في النهاية، يبدأ النظام بالتهام نفسه. ليس لأن الناس يريدون الفوضى… بل لأنهم تعلّموا، مرة بعد مرة، أن القوانين لم تُصمَّم لحمايتهم أصلاً.

وهنا يكمن الخطر الحقيقي.

ليس في التمرد. ولا في المقاومة. بل في الإدراك البطيء أن الخط الفاصل بين النظام والانهيار أرقّ مما يعترف به من هم في السلطة.

وعندما ينكسر هذا الخط أخيراً… لن يكون الأمر مفاجئاً.

سيكون مجرد التاريخ وهو يعيد نفسه.

I was 13. Maybe 14. Still a kid—still trying to figure out who I even was.

This was back in 2017, when everything online felt new and exciting. Discord servers, YouTubers, attention from people you thought mattered—it all felt bigger than life. That’s when I met someone who called himself Count Dankula.

At first, it felt like nothing. Just messages. Just someone talking to me.

But I didn’t understand what was happening.

I had long hair back then. People said I looked feminine. I didn’t think much of it—but apparently, he did. The conversations changed. They became uncomfortable, confusing… wrong. And then he started sending me things no adult should ever send to a kid. Explicit photos. His body. Things I didn’t ask for, things I didn’t understand, things I didn’t know how to react to.

I remember just staring at the screen sometimes, frozen. Not knowing if I should close it, respond, or pretend it didn’t happen. I didn’t even fully understand how serious it was. I just knew it made my stomach drop.

And it didn’t stop there.

I was in his Discord server too. There were so many people—some older, some around my age. Looking back, it feels disturbing. At the time, it just felt normal… or at least, I told myself it was. But every now and then, someone would try to speak up. Try to expose something. And nothing would happen. It would just disappear, like it never existed.

When I finally spoke out about what he sent me, I thought maybe people would listen.

Instead, they turned on me.

I got mocked. Insulted. Treated like I was the problem. His friends came after me like I was the one who did something wrong. I was just a kid trying to explain something I didn’t even have the words for.

And the worst part?

I had no proof. No screenshots. No recordings. I didn’t even know how to take a screenshot back then. I didn’t know how to “save evidence.” I barely knew how to process what was happening to me. I just sat there, alone, trying to deal with something way bigger than I was.

That kind of helplessness… it sticks with you.

I’m 23 now. Years have passed. But it doesn’t just disappear. You don’t just “move on” from something like that. It stays in the back of your mind—in the way you trust people, in the way you see the world, in the anger that comes back when you remember.

What hurts the most isn’t just what happened.

It’s that it felt like nobody cared.

Like it was allowed to happen.

Like I didn’t matter enough for anyone to stop it.

I made a video about it because staying silent felt worse. I’m not saying everyone will believe me. I’m not expecting that.

But I know what I experienced.

And I’m done prete

i don’t usually talk about this, but it’s something that stayed with me long after I left that place.

I'm an ex military inmate This happened during my final days in a district military prison. You lose your sense of time in there no sunlight, no real way to tell day from night. After a while, your mind starts playing tricks on you, or at least that’s what I kept telling myself.

I was being held in solitary.

They had me in A Hall—an entire block of cells, but I was the only one there. Completely alone. Every cell empty except mine. The silence in that place wasn’t normal silence… it was heavy, like it was pressing down on you.

Across from A Hall was B Hall. That’s where they kept the other inmates—the ones being interrogated. Sometimes you could hear distant movement from that side, but it was separated enough that you shouldn’t have been able to hear anything clearly from where I was.

A few days before my release, something changed.

It started with the voices.

At first, they were faint—barely more than whispers brushing past my ears. I couldn’t make out full sentences, just fragments… but they were enough to get under my skin.

“Why me…”
“I died innocent…”

They didn’t sound like echoes or distant conversations. They sounded close. Too close. Like someone was standing right beside me, speaking directly into my ear.

I tried to rationalize it. No light, no sense of time, isolation—it messes with your head. Hallucinations made sense. That explanation felt safe.

Then things got harder to explain.

One night after a smoke break with the guards, they escorted me back to my cell in A Hall. As always, it was empty. Just me, and rows of unused cells stretching into darkness.

Not long after, the silence broke.

I heard it clear as day violent, repetitive banging. Like someone smashing their head against a metal cell door. Over and over. Hard enough that you’d expect blood, screaming… something.

But there was nothing. No voice. Just the impact.

The guard rushed back, thinking it was me.

He opened my cell and looked straight at me, tense, ready for trouble. I told him I hadn’t done anything. He didn’t believe me at first, so he checked—looked for bruises, cuts, anything.

There was nothing.

Not even a mark.

That’s when his expression changed. He didn’t argue anymore. He just stared at me for a moment, like he was trying to process something he didn’t want to understand.

Because he heard it too.

And he knew it didn’t come from me.

After that, it wasn’t just me noticing things. You could feel it in the air—guards acting different, quieter… like they were listening for something they didn’t want to hear again. Even the distance between A Hall and B Hall started to feel… thinner, like whatever was happening didn’t care about walls.

That place didn’t feel empty anymore.

It felt occupied.

Maybe it was isolation messing with my head. Maybe it was the pressure, the darkness, the silence. Or maybe it was something else entirely.

A place like that… you start to wonder how many people passed through it. How many never walked out. How many stories ended there without anyone ever hearing them.

And sometimes, late at night, it felt like those stories were still trying to be heard.