Ever watch some empty-headed buffoon strut around like they swallowed a thesaurus dipped in their own ego? That’s PRETENTIOUSNESS—the second festering boil on the ass of humanity. The preferred stench of charlatans, posers, and puffed-up twats who think eyeliner and esoteric word salad make them profound. Newsflash, brainiac: it doesn’t. It just paints a bigger target on your forehead—and not the kind for enlightenment.
Pretentiousness is ego on stilts, teetering atop a pile of unread books, parroting borrowed thoughts with the blind conviction of a cult flunky. If you’re so hypnotized by your own reflection in the polished turd of your intellect, you won’t even notice when the floor collapses. You’re not deep. You’re the punchline in a bad joke that won’t die.
Satanism Ain’t a Goddamn Fashion Show
Let’s be brutally clear: pretentiousness is cowardice with a vocabulary. It’s weakness in cosplay. It’s the last refuge of the unoriginal—dressing up their insecurities in black lace and buzzwords and praying no one calls their bluff.
Ever hear some jackass namedrop Nietzsche, Crowley, and LaVey like they're casting a spell, then proceed to spew air-puffed gibberish? That’s not wisdom—that’s mental masturbation in a mirror maze. They’re not challenging anything. They’re peacocking in front of their imaginary fan club.
Satanism isn’t a goth-themed talent show. It’s a warpath. A crucible. You confront who you really are or you get swallowed whole by the role you’re pretending to play. And when the wolves come—and they will—you’ll be the first one bleeding.
You Can’t Polish a Turd Into Truth
Pretentiousness is spiritual drag—not the fabulous kind, the fake kind. It's ego fluffing its feathers with someone else’s molted scraps. And Satanism? It plucks those feathers with pliers and shoves your trembling ass in front of the mirror.
It doesn’t care about your incantations, your curated bookshelf, or how many moody selfies you took by candlelight. It wants to know one thing:
Are you real, or are you just rehearsing a script you stole off Reddit?
Because here’s the thing, cupcake: When the fire hits—and it will—your act burns first. Every costume. Every quote. Every postured pose. You either stand naked in the flame and laugh—or you melt screaming like the fraud you are.
The Devil’s Mirror Doesn’t Lie
Smash the illusion. Salt the ashes. Strip off the theater paint and meet yourself for the first time, if you dare.
If your “depth” dies under pressure, it wasn’t depth—it was decoration. And Satan doesn’t give a flying fuck about decoration.
He doesn’t need actors. He needs heretics. Builders. Bastards with backbone.
The Mark of the Beast is Authenticity
Burn the script. Shatter the mask. Scatter the ashes to the wind.
No gods. No masters. No posers.
Embrace who you are. Live your best possible life. Conquer your perceived world. Then do it without a costume, coward.
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