404: Henry Not Found

The Algorithm Doesn’t Give a Shit About You (And It Never Will)

Henry’s fucked off.

And just like that… Henry used to be an angry writer. Full of spite and hate. Cussing and vexing. So much energy. It was fun but never sustainable. Or was it? Maybe it’s the only honest way to write anymore. Because, let’s be real — what the fuck had positivity gotten him? A handful of polite readers and a slow, painful descent into obscurity.

Every few months he’d throw a wobbly. A person would unsubscribe. The numbers flattened out. The growth halted and the weather turned to shit. Literally. Outside was all a bluster. Trees hollering in anguish, rain pissing down from all sides. A full-frontal meteorological fuck-you. And Henry sat there, staring at the stats, feeling sorry for himself like a goddamn lab rat pressing the dopamine button one too many times.

It was a cycle. A sick, fucked-up cycle. He invested in the algorithm, pinned all his hopes and dreams on a soulless, omnipotent force that he had no way of understanding. It was like worshipping a digital god who couldn’t give a single shit about him. Were programmers the new deities? Did they grasp the level of societal carnage they’d unleashed? Of course not. They were just following orders. “It’s just a job,” they said. “You can always log off.”