#scrolltrap cadence

THEY WERE JUST TEENAGERS -- AND THEY SAVED YOUR SORRY PLANET (Revised) (A Blacksite Eulogy for the Original Mighty Morphin Power Rangers)

While you were crying over your $16 Panera sadness sandwich, while your parents were mid-divorce over "ethical bacon," five teenagers were curb-stomping space fascists in color-coded armor.

Not Navy SEALs. Not government black ops. Not your 43-year-old CrossFit uncle.

Teenagers. With SAT flashcards in one hand and alien war medals in the other.

They didn’t ask for consent forms. Didn’t request a trauma counselor. Didn’t post vague “I’m not okay” stories on Instagram.

They got sucked into a glowing space tube by a floating wizard head and immediately started dropkicking lunar necromancers.

AND YOU DON’T RESPECT THEM ENOUGH.

They weren’t trained. They weren’t insured. They weren’t even legal adults.

Half of them probably still got picked last in gym class -- and still picked violence before calculus.

Meanwhile, you’re sitting in a beanie complaining about “late-stage capitalism” as if you ever faced down a kaiju with your ex's mixtape still in your Walkman.

💀 THE ENEMY ROSTER:

Rita Repulsa: A menopause sorceress with vape smoke hair and the vocal range of a goat sacrifice. Dropped monsters like SoundCloud rappers drop EPs: frequently, and without meaning.

Goldar: Literal winged monkey dipped in melted Rolexes. Spoke like Optimus Prime after a gravel smoothie. Absolutely roid-raged. Still got folded like a lawn chair.

Putties (or “Puddies,” idk, clay lives don’t matter): Zumba class rejects made of wet cement and poor life choices. Ran up just to get obliterated like background dancers in a Taekwondo musical.

How were they treated? Like Home Depot demo walls.

Spin kicks. Flying elbows. Double-knees to the sternum with zero OSHA compliance.

Sometimes they didn’t even morph. Just squared up in jeans and teenage spite.

🧠 YOU THINK YOUR FINALS WERE HARD?

Try being 16 with:

🦖 Dino mechs to pilot 💥 Death lasers in your zip code 📚 A biology test on mitochondria due by 4th period

If you failed? You didn’t get a B-minus. You got vaporized into stardust by a kaiju with neck piercings.

🛡️ NO HR. NO THERAPY. NO FMLA.

They didn’t sue Zordon for endangerment. Didn’t unionize against Alpha 5’s annoying ass. Didn’t even ask for a mental health day.

They just backflipped into unpaid intergalactic warfare like it was a damn gym elective.

Explosions? Flipped over ‘em. Monsters? Chopped their necks. Existential trauma? Repressed it like 90s kids were born to do.

Because they knew the truth: The adults weren’t gonna save sh*t.

YOU GETTING THIS YET, DUMMY?

No super-soldier serum. No Hogwarts scholarship. Just vibes, flips, and unresolved rage.

You owe your peaceful childhood to five hormone-riddled teens who got drafted into alien war crimes by a wall-mounted lava lamp and didn’t even flinch.

They were the last generation to morph without whining.

⚖️ LEGAL DISCLAIMER:

This post is protected under Article 7 of the Galactic Satirical Combat Doctrine. Filed under: Nostalgic Delinquent Appreciation, Color-Coordinated War Crimes, and Child Soldier Recognition Day.

If you’re offended: Go journal about it in lowercase. The Rangers were pulling zords out of volcanoes while you were asking your mom if PG-13 movies had kissing in them.

🛐 BLACKSITE CHALLENGE: “WOULD YOU HAVE MORPHED?”

Ask yourself:

When Zordon called, when the sky cracked open, when Rita sent yet another worm demon to destroy your zip code…

Would you have pulled your coin and morphed up? Or would you have asked for conflict de-escalation training and a gluten-free snack break?

---

Reblog if you damn well know the Rangers deserved hazard pay, group therapy, and 401(k) plans by 17

🦖 Reblog this if you ever shadowboxed a Putty in your kitchen wearing socks or

Send it to the friend who still yells “IT’S MORPHIN’ TIME” before therapy

🍻 You thought it was a bar. It was a feeding ground. You thought you were a guest. You were garnish.

🖥️ You thought IT fixed problems. IT doesn’t fix. IT witnesses.

You wanted Excel. You got Exorcism. You wanted a login. You got a life sentence.

🛏️ Sleep paralysis is mercy. Awake terror is the upgrade. He doesn’t want you frozen — he wants you fumbling in the dark, wide-eyed, breathless, realizing the light switch doesn’t help.

<meta scrolltrap-category="BLACKSITE LITERATURE™ :: IDENTITY SEVERANCE :: WRITER UNMASKING PROTOCOL"> <script> TRIGGER_WARNING="identity rupture, masked self-exposure, ego liquefaction" WRITER_EFFECT="bravery override, subconscious unlock, cadence purge initiation" PROTOCOL_STAGE="PHASE 2 — REVEAL AND STRIKE" </script>

☠️ “THE DAY YOU REALIZE NO ONE EVER REALLY KNEW YOU WAS THE DAY YOU’RE FREE.”

So you’re terrified of being misunderstood?

Cute.

You’ve been misunderstood since the moment you came out of the womb and everyone thought your scream meant you were alive, not that you already knew how f==ked it all was.

Nobody knew you then. Nobody knows you now. And the ones who say they do?

They’ve only met your projections, your survival theater, your “if-I-say-this-they-won’t-leave” version of you.

And guess what?

That’s not the tragedy.

That’s the jailbreak.

🧠 YOU WERE NEVER MEANT TO BE UNDERSTOOD. YOU WERE BUILT TO BE UNLEASHED.

But you’ve spent years editing yourself down to a safe file size for people who’d never open the real one.

You perform. You filter. You meme your pain. You flirt through sarcasm. You spiritualize your heartbreak so nobody sees the blood.

You call it content. You call it a “brand.” But deep down, you know:

You call it fear.

⚔️ FEAR OF WHAT?

Fear they’ll laugh. Fear they’ll leave. Fear they’ll say, “That’s not who you are.”

As if anyone but you has a f==king clue who that is.

💉 HERE’S YOUR CURE:

Write something so honest, it makes you nauseous.

Say the thing you swore you’d never say. Post the version you only share with ghosts.

Don’t wait to be understood. Be undeniable. Be unignorable. Be your goddamn self, even if no one claps.

Because once you stop performing for applause— you start performing surgery on the collective coma.

📜 BLACKSITE WRITER UNMASKING EXERCISE: “THE LINE THEY’D NEVER FORGIVE”

Step 1: Open your draft, journal, or notes app. Step 2: Write a single paragraph that would horrify the curated version of you. Something you've never posted. Something your polite self would delete.

Start with one of these lines:

“If you really knew me, you’d never speak to me again because…”

“Here’s what I actually wanted to say that night, but didn’t…”

“No one knows this, but I still dream about…”

“Sometimes, I pretend I’m someone else because…”

“I didn’t survive it. I adapted.”

Step 3: Do not edit it. No filters. No phrasing fixes. No marketing gloss. Let it be raw, wrong, real. Let it burn.

Step 4: Walk away for 30 minutes. Come back. Read it out loud like it’s not yours. Feel the shame? That means you hit the vein.

Step 5: Now rewrite it. As a poem. As a character. As a TikTok monologue. As a scene. As a goddamn myth if you have to.

But don’t bury it. Transmute it.

🛐 BLACKSITE LITERATURE™ ISN’T “WRITING.” IT’S RESURRECTION THROUGH FIRE.

You will lose readers. You will lose followers. You will lose the plastic crowd that came for performance.

But what you gain?

Is a weaponized voice built in your own f==king image.

💀 TL;DR

Nobody really knew you

You don’t need them to

Write anyway

Bleed anyway

Make your truth so undeniable that even silence bends to it

🧠 Read more respect-coded doctrine, cadence detonation drills, and identity-piercing payloads at: 👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence 🛡️ Blacksite Literature. Shame-flip protocols. Weaponized authenticity. 🚪 Write like the mask is already on fire.

</div>

🍻 You thought you were the audience. You were the entertainment. You thought you brought friends to a bar. You brought sacrifices to a stage that never closes.

You don’t copy Blacksite Literature. You don’t imitate Scrolltrap writing.

You survive it. Or learn from it.

If you don’t? If you hate?

You become one of them. The echo-men. The faceless. The forgotten. The forever unpublished.

🧠 BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP — “SO YOU WANNA BE A SITH? LOL OKAY.”

You ever hear the story of Darth Plagueis the Wise?

No?

Then pack your little Sith cosplay and get the hell out.

You just failed the first question on the dark side exam. There are three rules to applying for Sith apprenticeship:

Know the story of Darth Plagueis.

Say it back in a creepy whisper.

Never blink when doing it.

You blinked during the question. You Googled the story. You pronounced “Plagueis” like “Plague-ass.”

Application denied.

—

Let’s not pretend you’re special.

You’re not the heir to a secret Sith bloodline. You’re not the chosen one. You’re not even chosen adjacent.

You once got called “menacing” on Tinder and now you think you’re ready to kill your master?

Bro, you cried when Netflix canceled Daredevil. You can’t even handle your WiFi cutting out— and you want to wield ancient Force hatred without flinching?

—

Let’s do a quick diagnostic:

📋 Childhood trauma? ⛔️ Nope. You just didn’t get a PS5 for Christmas.

📋 Hate in your heart? ⛔️ Mostly toward your ex and people who spoil anime.

📋 Ruthless ambition? ⛔️ You applied for this with a cover letter that said “just vibes.”

Bro you failed the Sith Rorschach test by seeing a cat in every inkblot.

You’re not a dark lord. You’re a LARPing disappointment in a red bathrobe.

—

What’s your name? Kyle? Tyler? Zane?

No Sith in galactic history was named Zane.

You want to strike fear into the galaxy with that?

“My lord… it’s Darth Zane.”

No. No it’s not.

You sound like a vape-sponsored Twitch streamer who owns a replica saber and a fedora collection.

—

Let’s talk résumé.

You’ve rage quit Call of Duty. You once punched a wall because your UberEats was late. You cussed out your mom for unplugging your Xbox mid-duel.

Impressive.

If this were the Sith Daycare Division maybe we’d let you in.

But this is the real Order. And you’re a force-choking liability.

—

Palpatine didn’t rise from nothing with a dream board and iced coffee.

He manipulated an entire senate. He engineered a galactic war. He wore a cloak that smelled like lightning and betrayal.

And you?

You get winded walking up stairs. You get emotional during TikToks. You cried when Grogu left.

You think that's dark energy?

Nah. That’s middle-school depression with extra steps.

—

Let’s talk powers.

You fantasized about Force lightning. But couldn’t even handle static shock from a hotel doorknob.

You tried Force choking your ex. All you did was text her “k.” Then spiral for three weeks.

Your dark side “training” consisted of:

Scowling in the mirror

Doing push-ups after breakups

And posting cryptic quotes like “A lion doesn’t lose sleep over sheep… unless he’s lactose intolerant” or some sh*t.

—

Let’s talk lineage.

The Sith take bloodlines seriously. They trace their roots through centuries of betrayal, death, and Force-fueled orgies.

You? Your family can’t trace their DNA past Ancestry.com.

No one in your bloodline has ever ruled a room, let alone a planet.

Your dad’s a pharmacist. Your mom sells LuLaRoe. Your great uncle cried at a chili cook-off.

The Force doesn’t run through your blood. It avoids it.

—

Here’s a checklist of actual Sith qualities:

✅ Willingness to kill your master ✅ Mastery of deception, manipulation, and Force abuse ✅ Ability to monologue with thunder crashing behind you ✅ Face must look like you’ve aged in reverse through rage ✅ Zero friends, maximum influence

You?

❌ Uses “💀💅” in text arguments ❌ Apologized to your cat after raising your voice ❌ Only rage-murdered in The Sims ❌ Thinks Darth Maul “could get it” but still spells his name “Mole” ❌ Flinches at Jumpscares in Minecraft

—

Let’s be honest.

You’re not Sith.

You’re Sith-adjacent. Like a barista at a Sith-run Starbucks. You make the lattes. We make the deaths.

—

Try these instead:

Become a Dark Side influencer. (Use the hashtag #SithButMakeItSexy)

Run a podcast called “Force Ghosted: Tales of Rejection”

Get a kyber crystal, name it Kevin, tell people you “vibe together”

Apply to the Empire as a Stormtrooper (you’ll miss anyway)

Or just…

Try therapy.

The Force is probably not your issue. You just never unpacked the time your crush ignored your meme reply.

—

Sith rejection isn’t personal. It’s planetary.

You’re not our kind of evil. You’re just Twitter mean.

The galaxy doesn’t need another emotionally constipated villain with a lightsaber and daddy issues.

We’ve got enough of those already.

—

🧠 Read more Sith-denied doctrine, Force rejection scrolltraps, and kyber crystal shaming at: 👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence 🛡️ Lore desecration. Villain therapy. Star Wars fandom correction. 🚪 Warning: May cause saber envy, ego combustion, and dark side dysmorphia.

📊 SITH APPLICATION REJECTION STATS 📊

Sith Lords approved this quarter: 0.002%

Applicants who couldn’t spell “Sith”: 31%

Midichlorian delusions per hour: 700

Lightsabers broken in anger: 403

Mothers disappointed: 100%

Darths created from this form: still zero