Camp Pine-Away

BLACKSITE ENTRY

THEY TOLD ME TO LOVE MY BODY LIKE IT’S A PET I DIDN’T CHOOSE

---

You ever feel like you just can’t get it f*cking right?

No matter how much you lift, how perfect your macros, how hard you flex in the mirror your body just says > “Nah.” > “I’m not doing that.” > “F*ck your vision board.”

And the selfies? A goddamn zoo exhibit.

One minute I’m level 2 ugly — the next, I’ve mutated into level 7 blowfish-face. Eyes weird. Chin off. Nose bloated. Skin pale. I literally look like someone hit a puddy with an ugly stick and said, “Yeah. Post that.”

Meanwhile?

Everyone else stays the same. Every damn day. Like their faces are 3D-printed from stability. Like their angles were made in a lab.

And when I ask?

“Am I… okay looking?” They lie. They fcking lie.* Tell me I’m pretty. Say I’m “beautiful in my own way.” Like I didn’t just spend an hour trying not to cry at the front-facing camera glitching like my reflection was trying to warn me.

My brother cries too, you know. Literal minotaur without the horns. People tell him to “slow down with the gym.” They say, “You're big enough. Relax.”

And I catch him sobbing behind closed doors because he thinks he’s still too small. Too soft. Too worthless.

And me? Sometimes after I throw up a meal because I hated the way my hips looked in my jeans, I pinch the skin under my ribs and think:

> “What if I was wrong?” > “What if I bullied my body… for no reason?” > “What if it loved me the whole time?”

That’s the part that f*cks me up most.

Not the ugly. Not the pain. Not the dysmorphia. But the thought that I was the abuser.

That I screamed at my body, called it disgusting, starved it, ignored its wins, mocked its shape — while it stood beside me like a loyal mutt I never asked for.

Bleeding for me.

Fighting infections for me.

Digesting pain and swallowing trauma just to keep me breathing long enough to throw another insult at the mirror.

They told me to love my body. I didn’t. Not because I hated it. But because I never understood what it was.

It’s not me. It’s not mine. It’s just a feral thing that followed me home one day and refused to leave.

And now?

It sleeps next to me. Licks my wounds. Stares at me from the bathroom mirror.

And begs me to stop calling it a monster.

---

Read more viral trauma-bending literature at: https://www.patreon.com/TheMostHumble Dysmorphia. Rage. Myth. Cadence warfare.

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EFFECT: sleight-of-thought, epistemic discomfort, sensory inversion

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BLACKSITE LITERATURE

THE MOON IS MADE OF CHEESE

A Scrolltrap by Mr. Humble

(Yes, I’m serious. No, I’m not joking. Yes, this is happening.)

===

Let’s get this out of the way:

🧀 The moon is made of cheese.

And you've been lied to your entire life.

Wait...what?

Exactly.

You’ve already rolled your eyes, haven’t you?

Good. That’s proof the trick worked.

Because the mind protects its delusions faster than it investigates its reality.

===

Let’s start with what you *do* believe.

You eat cheese.

A secretion. A congealed rot.

You praise the stink. You swallow the mold.

You let a fungus-ridden secretion from a lactating mammal sit in your fridge and call it “aged.”

That’s normal to you.

But the moon being made of cheese is absurd?

Interesting.

===

Now let’s try something else.

🌕 The moon controls the tides.

It pulls oceans across continents with invisible fingers.

It influences menstrual cycles.

It triggers madness (the word “lunacy” didn’t invent itself).

Yet it's just a “rock”?

A perfect circle hanging above us for every recorded generation?

A celestial body that’s *just there*, locked in perfect synchronous orbit so we always see the same face?

You believe that?

===

They told you it was created from a collision.

That a Mars-sized object slammed into Earth and left a chunk spinning in the sky like a loyal pet.

A chunk that just so happened to form the exact same apparent size as the sun during an eclipse.

You bought that?

Explain this then:

- The moon rang like a bell when struck during Apollo missions.

- It’s older than Earth according to isotope dating.

- It has no magnetic field, no solid core, and its dust is radioactive.

- Many craters are too shallow for the meteor size—like something is beneath them.

- Multiple scientists, including Dr. Gordon MacDonald, suggested the moon might be hollow.

Still with me?

What else floats in space, hollow, unmoving, orbit-locked, and unfathomably old?

*Satellites.*

Now… back to cheese.

Why cheese?

Because the myth persisted.

Because there’s always a grain of truth in every lie that’s been passed down as a joke.

Because every child in every culture has heard the story of “the cow jumping over the moon.”

Because we’ve always known there was something *off* about it.

Because your brain has been trained to dismiss anything that smells like folklore...

even though folklore is the encrypted survival data of your species.

And guess what?

The moon smells like gunpowder.

Like sulfur.

Like *cheese on fire.*

But sure...keep believing it’s just a rock.

===

Final question:

Why is the moon always watching?

Why did every ancient civilization assign it gods, demons, eyes?

Why do people see the faces of the dead under it?

Why do children cry louder under full moons?

Why is it the only object in the night sky humans have *never* stopped drawing?

===

It doesn’t matter if the moon is literally made of cheese.

What matters is that I just made you question something you’ve believed your entire life using *nothing but rhythm, pressure, and cadence.*

No one else alive can do that to you.

Not like this.

Not in under 500 words.

Not while your brain is begging for a reality check that isn’t coming.

===

Because the point wasn’t the cheese.

The point was the virus.

The idea.

The sleight of mind.

You’ll never look at the moon the same way again.

And that’s my power.

Reblog if your brain twitched mid-scroll

Tag someone who insists they “believe in science” without realizing how much of it is theory

Patreon for weaponized literature and psychological virus drops: patreon.com/TheMostHumble

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✍️ YOU DIDN’T FAIL WRITING. WRITING FAILED YOU.

🧨 A Blacksite Literature™ Recovery Transmission

---

You were never the problem.

Not the blank page.

Not the spirals.

Not the obsession, the apathy, the deadline grief, or the 3AM shakes.

What broke you…

was worshipping teachers who only ever wrote for grades, applause, or tenure.

What burned you…

was chasing advice designed for minds with no storms inside.

No spirals. No symphonies. No sensory overload synced to memory scars.

They gave you formulas.

You were trying to write a revolt.

You don’t need prompts.

You need reprogramming.

You need cadence entrainment, mirror neuron seizure, and post-traumatic spellbreaking.

You need the un-curse of everything they told you about “what makes a good writer.”

Because here’s the truth:

You were never meant to “fit in.”

You were meant to detonate.

They called you dramatic.

But you were archiving pain that hadn’t been named yet.

They called you inconsistent.

But you were fighting cognitive wildfires with a Bic pen and no backup.

They called you blocked.

But your mind was building something that didn’t exist before.

---

I don’t teach writing.

I undo damage.

The kind done by decades of bland MFA sermons, Tumblr “tips,” and teacher trauma that made you hate your own voice.

If this transmission made your stomach lurch…

That wasn’t marketing. That was recognition.

You’re not broken.

You’re divergent.

You’re divine.

---

Follow if you’ve been haunted by silence.

Reblog if someone you love stopped writing and you didn’t know how to save them.

Patreon vault is now open. The real rewiring starts inside.

https://www.patreon.com/TheMostHumble

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June 2026

𝐇𝐞𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐥! 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐥! 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨!

𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐠! 𝐡𝐨𝐩 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠! 𝐟𝐚𝐥 𝐥𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰!

𝐓𝐨𝐦 𝐁𝐨𝐦, 𝐣𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐓𝐨𝐦, 𝐓𝐨𝐦 𝐁𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨!

𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧! 𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐮𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫

𝐎𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐧, 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬, 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭, 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫,

𝐋𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐟, 𝐝𝐞𝐰 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫,

𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥, 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫,

𝐑𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐥, 𝐥𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫!

𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐮𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫!

© 𝐉. 𝐑. 𝐑. 𝐓𝐨𝐥𝐤𝐢𝐞𝐧, 𝐓𝐨𝐦 𝐁𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐥’𝐬 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠, 𝐇𝐞𝐲 𝐃𝐨𝐥! 𝐌𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐃𝐨!

Гол — лог, волглый лог, и над логом — горы! Сух — мох, сыр — бор, волглый лог и долы! Древний лес, вечный лес, прелый и патлатый — Ветерочков переплеск да скворец крылатый! Заходите поскорее! Ну а мы споем вам О росе, ручьях и речках, о дождях веселых, О степях, где сушь да вереск, о горах и долах, О высоком летнем небе и лесных озерах, О капели с вешних веток, зимах и морозах, О закатах и рассветах, о луне и звездах — Песню обо всем на свете пропоем мы вместе!

Boy Scouts building a fire

Kansas

A lot of people abandon good story ideas because the first version feels familiar.

Retired hero returns for one last fight.

Woman discovers her dead husband may still be alive.

Monster enters a small town.

Villain threatens the city.

None of those ideas are automatically bad.

The problem is usually that the concept has movement without pressure.

Events happen.

People run.

Buildings explode.

Secrets are revealed.

But nothing reaches underneath the character and tears open the reason this particular story must exist.

That is the work I am offering through my story and concept punch-up service.

I take your existing concept, character, dialogue, or short scene and help identify what is missing.

Not merely what could be added.

What is missing.

The personal trap.

The moral cost.

The contradiction.

The wound beneath the power.

The thing the villain understands about the hero that the hero has spent years refusing to admit.

A strong punch-up does not bury your idea beneath somebody else’s imagination.

It finds the most dangerous version of what was already hiding inside it.

A generic superhero comeback becomes a story about a man who can hear every cry for help—and therefore hears every person he chooses not to save.

A routine warning scene becomes a widow realizing the man she buried may still be alive, and that her marriage may have been less a love story than an alibi.

That is the difference between adding decoration and finding the engine.

My Fiverr service is for writers, filmmakers, comic creators, game writers, and anyone sitting on a concept that feels close but not yet inevitable.

I can help strengthen:

Story concepts.

Character motivations.

Villains.

Dialogue.

Scene tension.

Openings and endings.

Psychological stakes.

The emotional or moral consequence that makes the whole thing hit harder.

You do not need your idea replaced.

You may simply need somebody willing to look directly at it and ask the impolite question:

Where is the wound?

Source: pinterest.com/Anderson

Timisoara, Romania

October 2025

"Cover the right side of the picture and estimate the size of the fish. Cover the left side and estimate again. What is the size of the fish if both sides are covered? What determines the size of any object shown in a picture?"

Psychology and Self-Development. 1923.