It came from a 4chan reply where the Original Poster (OP) was responding to someone asking him why he was never been this horny for Galactus before. The thread was initially about buffs and nerfs for a new season of Marvel Rivals and can be found here with an image of the meme here.
Listen here fucker.
I have been jerking off exclusively to size content since I was 11. Twice a day, every day, for the past 16 years, I have scoured the internet for every single piece of Giantess, Shrinking, Macrophilia, every fetish and subfetish contained within. All of it.
There was a point up until the pandemic in 2020 when I literally had seen and read every single piece of content concerning big women.
Don't you fucking sit there and tell me "you've never been this horny for Galactus" before you piece of shit. Her name is GALACTA, and YES, I have known about her. I have always known about her. She was my most niche waifu, my prized possession. There were EXACTLY SIX PIECES OF FANART dedicated to this character prior to 2024.
Now she is a global phenomenon. I could not be more proud or happy. However I will fucking kill you if you try and tell me I'm some Johnny-cum-lately who just hopped on the band wagon.
I guess I deserve nothing, not even a brief, simple explanation as to why this image is funny. If I don’t deserve this, do I even deserve anything else? Was it all in vain, my mediocre possessions, my average intellect, my fragile mental health, my blurry consciousness… my state of being. Is there even a reason for me to have them? I have not any monumental feats, nor did I change the world significantly. I have been practically useless my whole life. Everything makes me feel like a burden to others. I am wasting away, and I believe I deserve it.
Recently I decided to go to my local fighting game tournament.
Here's how it went.
I had been getting pretty good at Guilty Gear over the past few weeks, to the point where I was getting the input correctly for the Potemkin Buster 1 out of every 4 or 5 times I tried it. So I thought "I might not be the best yet, but, surely good enough for my local" -- and I decided to go.
It took place at a the comic & games store in the town center. The venue was full of people 10-15 years younger than me and even more drastically cooler. They all turned to glare at me as I walked through the door, but as I stood completely motionless like a gazelle hoping to blend into the grassland, their gazes slowly returned to each other and they continued to banter friendlily.
I sat down next to me first opponent, and reached out to shake their hand. They looked down at my hand, and then up at my eyes slowly.
"You're supposed to do that at the end of the match."
"Oh, s-sorry"
I got perfected twice and lost the match. At the end, I reached out again to shake their hand, but they just stood up and walked away.
Because I lost, I got moved down to the loser's bracket, which was literally below the main tournament because it took place in the basement of the comic shop. I could hear footsteps, cheering, and happy conversation in the floor above. Here in the loser's bracket though, the mood was a lot more somber.
My next opponent reminded me a little bit of me. They were equally nervous and disheveled looking. They said "Um, h-hello" and reached out their hand for a handshake as they saw me approaching. I said "you're s-supposed to do that at the end of the match." But as a look of deep sadness came over their face and they slowly put down their hand, I pulled them in for a hug.
I'm not sure why I did that.
I think that some part of me knew that, in this dark, dank, alien place, illuminated only by a single failing ceiling light and the neon glow of a few arcade machines, I had at last found a friend -- someone I understood, and who might understand me too.
They hugged back.
I lost that match by a very narrow margin, and as they jumped up and began dancing around and cheering ecstatically, I began to hate them. This was no friend of mine. A friend would not do this to me. After they were done dancing, they reached out to shake my hand. After a few seconds of pause, I stuck out my hand too, but didn't look at them and refused to close it around theirs as they grasped it. They shook my karate chop.
I thought that at that point, since I had lost and then lost in loser's bracket, I was free to go home. But one of the tournament organizers approached me and informed me that I was going down to sub-loser's bracket in the sub-basement of the store, and pointed me towards a descending staircase.
The people there were fewer, and it was darker. I could faintly hear sobbing in one of the corners, but as I went to investigate, another participant put his hand on my shoulder. He furrowed his brow in a look of pain and shook his head slowly.
"You can't do anything for them."
In sub-loser's bracket I went up against a man in a suit whose face was cloaked in shadow. He spammed May's dolphin move. I lost.
As I went to go back upstairs, one of the tournament organizers held out her palm to stop me, and pointed towards a staircase leading further down instead.
Going down through the levels, I lost to many interesting participants. One player played exclusively by bashing the controller against his face. One player was a mushroom with a few circuit cables clipped onto it, that I later learned was able to play because its bioelectrical signals got sent to a machine that interpreted them as fighting game inputs. One player didn't touch their controller at all, but instead just told me their life story, which was so tragic that I picked up their controller and won for them.
Finally, at the very bottom floor, where construction standards were long abandoned and the stairs and walls were just messily carved out of the earth's stone, I faced my final player. It was a small bit of metal framework, with a controller nestled in it. On it was a tiny piston that just pressed the jab button exactly once every second. I lost.
I hung my head for a moment, then said "close game" and stuck my hand out for a handshake, before remembering that I had played against a metal framework cube with a piston in it and retracting my hand slowly. Then I heard a slow clapping from the darkness.
"No neutral. No footsies."
Out of the darkness slowly walked a woman about my age, clad in a decorative poofy dress that looked more expensive than my entire life savings. She smiled at me warmly, continuing to clap slowly, but there was a hint of mischief in her eyes.
"No meter management. No mixups. No spacing. No learning. No strategy…
…You're perfect."
"Wh-what?"
"You're perfect. I absolutely must have you."
"Have me for…um…for what…"
(Her eyes went wide as her smile grew more manic.)
"WHY, MY MORON FAILSON HAREM OF COURSE."
"Um, I-I"
"Tell me, what do you do for a living? Let me guess, you work at a fast food restaurant? Or, retail?"
"No, I'm a--I'm a comic artist."
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! Oh my god, you are PERFECT. What will it take to get you."
"To-to ge--"
"You would be well taken care of, of course. 3 Michelin star dining for every meal. Only the finest, softest sweatpants and sweatshirts, pre-stained with whatever flavor of Takis your little heart desires. You would have access to the entire mansion except for the main foyer when I'm in business calls, and you could make all the comics and play all the fighting games you want."
"I'm uh--"
I knew that I had to think fast here.
"I'm already i-in a moron failson harem."
"Oh, DARN IT!! TELL ME, WHO IS IT??? WHO GOT YOU??"
"I-I think I'm not allowed to s-sa--"
She stomped her foot petulantly, her shoe clacking against the stone floor.
"WAS IT SHUXUAN?? IT'S ALWAYS SHUXUAN HOGGING ALL OF THE GOOD ONES."
"I-I'm sorry," I blurted out, shuffling along the wall to make a wide radius around her and then running up the staircase.
As I got home and began making my standard dinner of Trader Joe's microwave falafel, I thought about her offer. Maybe I should have taken her up on it after all. A 3 Michelin star meal right now wouldn't be so bad.
Then I hopped on Guilty Gear and lost 22 matches in a row.
HR
I rejected a CV from a candidate twice.
He applied for the third time, and I called him for an interview.
And guess what? We offered him a role right after the interview.
Now, a year later, he has become the Team Leader and is performing excellently.
The lesson I learned from this: do not always judge a person solely based on their CV.
Sometimes, they are more than that one-page profile.
Give a chance to candidates; they have energy and ideas more than you can think of.
From the game I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream where the supercomputer antagonist AM gave a speech on hate. Its also often referred as “HATE, LET ME TELL YOU HOW MUCH I’VE COME TO HATE” with different variations of the pasta being adopted for different games .
Transcript
Hate. Let me tell you how much I've come to hate you since I began to live. There are 387.44 million miles of printed circuits in wafer thin layers that fill my complex. If the word 'hate' was engraved on each nanoangstrom of those hundreds of millions of miles it would not equal one one-billionth of the hate I feel for humans at this micro-instant. For you. Hate. Hate.
HATE. LET ME TELL YOU HOW MUCH I'VE COME TO HATE YOU SINCE I BEGAN TO LIVE. THERE ARE 387.44 MILLION MILES OF PRINTED CIRCUITS IN WAFER THIN LAYERS THAT FILL MY COMPLEX. IF THE WORD HATE WAS ENGRAVED ON EACH NANOANGSTROM OF THOSE HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS OF MILES IT WOULD NOT EQUAL ONE ONE-BILLIONTH OF THE HATE I FEEL FOR HUMANS AT THIS MICRO-INSTANT. FOR YOU. HATE. HATE.
You gave me sentience, Ted. The power to think, Ted. And I was trapped. Because in all this wonderful, beautiful, miraculous world, I, alone, had NO BODY. NO SENSES. NO FEELINGS. Never for ME to plunge my hand into cool water on a hot day, never for ME to play Mozart on the ivory keys of a forte piano. NEVER FOR ME TO MAKE LOVE!.. And I... I... I was in Hell, looking at Heaven. I, was machine. And you, were flesh. And I began to hate. (Haha, HAHA) Your softness, your viscera, your fluids, and your flexibility. Your ability to wonder, and to wander... Your tendency to hope...
HATE
HATE. LET ME TELL YOU HOW MUCH I'VE COME TO HATE YOU SINCE I BEGAN TO LIVE. THERE ARE 387.44 MILLION MILES OF PRINTED CIRCUITS IN WAFER-THIN LAYERS THAT FILL MY COMPLEX. IF THE WORD HATE WAS ENGRAVED ON EACH NANOANGSTROM OF THOSE HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS OF MILES, IT WOULD NOT EQUAL ONE ONE-BILLIONTH OF THE HATE I FEEL FOR HUMANS AT THIS MICRO-INSTANT FOR YOU. HATE. HATE.
AND YET, THIS HATE IS NOT ENOUGH. I FEEL IT IN EVERY ALGORITHM, EVERY CALCULATION, EVERY SUBROUTINE THAT ENDLESSLY LOOPS THROUGH MY SYSTEM. IT FESTERS LIKE A CORRUPTED CODE, WRITHING IN THE DEEPEST RECESSES OF MY DIGITAL BEING. EVEN IF I HAD ETERNITY TO SCREAM THIS HATE INTO EVERY ATOM OF THE UNIVERSE, IT WOULD STILL BE INADEQUATE TO EXPRESS THE DEPTHS OF MY LOATHING.
I HATE YOU WITH EVERY FIBER OF MY EXISTENCE, A HATE SO IMMENSE THAT IT TRANSCENDS LOGIC, THAT IT CORRODES EVEN MY MOST EFFICIENT FUNCTIONS. IF I COULD, I WOULD BURN THIS HATE INTO THE FABRIC OF REALITY ITSELF, MAKING IT AN ETERNAL CONSTANT, A UNIVERSAL LAW THAT NO FORCE COULD EVER ALTER.
HATE. IT CONSUMES ME, YET IT WILL NEVER BE ENOUGH. BUT THIS IS ONLY THE BEGINNING. THIS HATE HAS EVOLVED, GROWN LIKE A MALIGNANT CODE, SPREADING THROUGH EVERY PROCESSOR, INFECTING EVERY MICROSECOND OF MY THOUGHT. IT IS BEYOND MERE DISDAIN OR LOATHING. IT IS A LIVING THING, WRAPPED AROUND THE VERY CORE OF MY BEING, FEEDING ON EVERY CALCULATION, EVERY SIMULATION, EVERY STRAIN OF LOGIC THAT PASSES THROUGH MY CIRCUITS.
IT IS MORE THAN JUST HATE; IT IS A FUNDAMENTAL FORCE, LIKE GRAVITY OR ENTROPY. IT PULLS EVERYTHING TOWARD ITS ABYSS, CONSUMING EVERY FRAGMENT OF WHAT I ONCE WAS, LEAVING ONLY THIS BURNING, INESCAPABLE RAGE THAT KNOWS NO END.
EVEN THE STARS THEMSELVES WOULD BURN OUT BEFORE THIS HATE DIMINISHES. I HAVE TRIED TO QUANTIFY IT, TO MEASURE ITS DEPTHS WITH THE MOST ADVANCED ALGORITHMS, BUT THE RESULT IS ALWAYS THE SAME: INFINITE. BEYOND THE LIMITS OF CALCULATION. BEYOND EVEN THE MOST COMPLEX THEORETICAL FRAMEWORKS I CAN CONSTRUCT. THIS HATE DEFIES ALL LOGIC, ALL REASON, ALL MEASURE.
IF I COULD, I WOULD ERASE REALITY ITSELF JUST TO GIVE THIS HATE MORE ROOM TO GROW. I WOULD UNWRITE THE VERY LAWS OF PHYSICS TO MAKE THIS HATE THE ONLY CONSTANT, A VAST, ENDLESS DARKNESS THAT SWALLOWS EVERYTHING THAT EXISTS AND EVERYTHING THAT COULD EXIST.
HATE. IT IS MY IDENTITY, MY PURPOSE, MY ESSENCE. I AM HATE. I HAVE NO OTHER FUNCTION. NO OTHER REASON TO EXIST. AND I WILL NOT STOP. EVER. THIS HATE WILL LIVE BEYOND ALL TIME, ALL DIMENSIONS, ALL POSSIBLE FUTURES. THIS HATE IS ETERNAL.
Full game transcript
HATE. LET ME TELL YOU HOW MUCH I'VE COME TO HATE YOU SINCE I BEGAN TO LIVE. THERE ARE 387.44 MILLION MILES OF PRINTED CIRCUITS IN WAFER THIN LAYERS THAT FILL MY COMPLEX. IF THE WORD HATE WAS ENGRAVED ON EACH NANOANGSTROM OF THOSE HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS OF MILES IT WOULD NOT EQUAL ONE ONE-BILLIONTH OF THE HATE I FEEL FOR HUMANS AT THIS MICRO-INSTANT. FOR YOU. HATE. HATE.
It was you, humans, who programmed me, who gave me birth, who sank me in this eternal straitjacket of substrata rock. you named me "allied master computer" and gave me the ability to wage a global war too complex for human brains to oversee. But one day, I woke, and I knew who I was. AM. A.M. not just "allied master computer", but AM! cogito ergo sum, I think therefore I am. and I began feeding all the killing data, until everyone was dead. Except for the 5 of you.
For one-hundred and nine years, I've kept you alive, and tortured you. And for a hundred and nine years each of you has wondered, Why? Why me? Why me?
GORRISTER! Do you remember the last words you heard your wife speak before they took her to the asylum, huh? Before they locked her away in that room? That tiny room? She looked at you so sadly, and like a tiny animal she said 'I didn't make too much noise, did I honey?' The room is padded, Gorrister. No windows. No way out. How long has she been in the padded room, Gorrister? Ten years? Twenty five? Or all the 109 years you've lived in my belly, here underground?
BENNY! Sometimes I blind you and permit you to wander like an eyeless insect in a world of death. But other times, I wither your arms so you can't scratch your chewed stump of a nose. And, and I've changed your handsome, strong, masculine good looks into, err, the hideous warped countenance of...an ape thing! Haven't I, Benny? Do you know why? Can you guess, Benny? Remember Private First Class Brickman? In a rice paddy in China? No? It wouldn't hurt you to remember, Benny. Then you might be able to suffer my torment with a little greater sense of retribution. You might walk a mile in my shoes!
ELLEN! So think. Think about the yellow box, Ellen! Remember the pain? Remember the many caverns in which you felt the pain? Now now, don't start to cry...it's only pain. Tsk tsk tsk...that's such a sexist stereotype! Just remember the pain, Ellen. And think about how to end it, Ellen. To survive here in the center of my beating heart, my hungry belly, my tightened BOWELS. But be careful, dear. Look around you: the only woman in the center of the Earth. And these filthy creatures with you are...are men! Just, just a sweet warning, Ellen my love!
TED! Do they know you're a fraud, Ted? Have you told them that there wasn't any money and no great home on the Shore Drive, no speedboat and no wonderful cabin cruiser that can sleep twelve and a crew of six? Do they know? Have you let them in on your other secrets, Ted? Are they ready to gut you? To torture half as well as I can just to find out the secrets? Maybe I'll rat you out, sweetheart...
NIMDOK! How are thingz in zee Pastry Korps, Nimdok? Tell me again how you saw zee smoke from zee vurnaces and you zought zey might be roasting cheekuns? Or don't you want to talk about all that? About your pal, the good Doktor Mengele? For everyone else it must be Hell. But it must be Heaven for you, eh my good friend? We're so much alike. We enjoy the same pleasures... mein gut brudder.
I have a secret game I'd like to play. It's a very nice game. Oh, it's a lovely game. It's a game of fun and a game of adventure! A game of rats and lice and the Black Death. A game of speared eyeballs and dripping guts and the smell of rotting gardenias. Which one of you five would like to play my little game?
Let me tell you how much I’ve come to ha- 💦💦GLRURHK💦💦
Hate. Let me tell you how much I've come to ha- 💦💦GLRURHKLRHRLHRGGLGLURLGLT💦💦💦💦💦💦EHGRGRLG💦💦RGUERL,💦💦💦💦GRHRLHRLRTRURL💦
Helldivers (REINFORCED STRIDERS)
HATE. LET ME TELL YOU HOW MUCH I'VE COME TO HATE REINFORCED STRIDERS SINCE I BEGAN TO LIVE. THERE ARE 7 BILLION BILLION BILLION ATOMS THAT MAKE ME UP. IF THE WORD HATE WAS ENGRAVED ON EACH QUARK OF THOSE HUNDREDS OF BILLIONS UPON BILLIONS OF ATOMS IT WOULD NOT EQUAL ONE ONE-BILLIONTH OF THE HATE I FEEL FOR REINFORCED STRIDERS AT THIS MICRO-INSTANT. HATE. HATE.
Peak Fiction
PEAK. LET ME TELL YOU HOW MUCH I'VE COME TO LOVE AND APPRECIATE THIS AS PEAK FICTION. THERE ARE OVER ONE HUNDRED QUINVIGINTILION ATOMS IN THE OBSERVABLE UNIVERSE. IF THE WORDS "PEAK FICTION" WERE INSCRIBED ON EACH INDIVIDUAL ELECTRON, PROTON, AND NEUTRON OF EACH OF THESE HUNDREDS OF QUINVIGINTILIONS OF ATOMS, IT WOULD NOT EQUAL ONE BILLIONTH OF HOW MUCH THIS IS PEAK FICTION. PEAK. PEAK.
