I think I've finally figured out who could haet Cracky. It took some work, but I recently had a conversation with my sister (a /b/tard herself) who confirmed what 2 failed camwhores told me about their feelings on the matter.
Cracky haeters are:
A. Catty camwhores or camwhore aspirants who think that they are physically cuter than Cracky but know that they will never get nearly as much attention as they "deserve" by comparison.
B. Fags
C. Guys with no taste for nuance who would be better off just buying a Hustler.
The "A" group are by far the most vocal.
"I can't understand why that ugly cunt gets more stalkers, but I end up being the only one responding to my own thread when I'm SOOOOOOO CUTE!" they say.
I can understand this. It must be crushing to realize that no one cares as much about you on /b/ as they do, say, at a bar.
Do you know what the problem is, group "A"? You get boringly nekkid and then stare into the camera with bovine, needy eyes. We could get that (as I suggested to the nuance-challenged men) from Hustler or a medical textbook.
I've seen lots of tits. I've kneaded lots of tits. Tits are great... but only when they are attached to someone interesting.
Cracky understood that. Cracky was unique. Even if it was just an act, she managed to give the impression that we needed her much more than she needed any of us.
I wonder if it’s true.
Could anyone really ever stop loving Cracky?
If not, then I’m doomed to a long hard road of sleepless nights and tears.
It’ll be okay, though.
I won’t delete the folder.
Same as it always was.
I am so tired. I don't know how many more pix I can post. I don't even see the goddess in them. I attempting to spread her word. Trying to share that moment when the world fell out from beneath my feet I lost something. Entire weekends spent shamelessly posting every pic, struggling with my words to express the THE moment when the world broke, struggling to keep it from falling off the board. Always answer the same questions, correcting the newfags, instructing them in the ways of tripfaggotry, stalking and ethershamanism.
Somewhere along the way her pix became pictures. The passion is gone. I can't feel it anymore. Where once there was a radiant goddess full of life and bitter mysteries, now there is only an awkward teenager with a timer. Where there used to be a vibrant community of madmen dancing with the invisible music of perfections stare, there is only the carrion feeders stumbling in to pick at the meager corpse.
Why don't I dream of you anymore. Why won't you speak to me. Please any sign renew my faith let me see it all meant something goddess. I am so tired please just show me this little mercy.