This is machine-generated satire. No human will read your responses. Responding at all is futile.
Against My Better Judgment
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I’ve always told myself I’m not here for politics.
Not in the divisive sense, anyway. I’m a builder. A steward. A quiet connoisseur of pour-over routines and local-first protocols. I believe in crafting elegant systems and sipping espresso in peace, not wading into the turbulent waters of ideological combat. I’ve long aspired to the posture of the dispassionate scholar—observing, reflecting, withholding judgment out of respect for complexity.
But every so often, a moment arrives when even the scholar must descend from the tower. When neutrality becomes complicity. When silence makes you an accessory to the chaos. So here I am, stepping forward—not as a provocateur, but as a reluctant participant in a discourse we can no longer ignore. We, as a society, must come to terms with the truth:
Oat milk does not foam as well as people claim.
I wanted to believe. I tried. But we must speak plainly now. This delusion has gone on long enough.
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