dreamily.ai

[comfysocks]

Too many recursive tags in post.

 

[The Last Stand]

"Cut! Print! That's a wrap, we'll try again tomorrow. Beautiful performance, Joan Crawford!"


The producer calls out to her as she makes her way to the changing room. Joan smiles at him and gives him her usual nod, before walking into the women's dressing room with an eye roll. She's still tired from last night and wants nothing more than to go home and get some sleep, but instead, here she is, trying to keep herself awake so she can make it back to her hotel room by tonight.

She sighs and looks over at the director who's giving her a knowing look, which makes her frown slightly. "You know this part isn't really for you. Just for fun." He says as he turns to leave. "And what's wrong with that? I'm perfectly capable of working my ass off for hours on end just to make it through one day, if that's what it takes." she retorts without thinking. Her words echo around the now empty room and suddenly, someone else walks through the door, their head snapping up quickly at the sound.

 

[Dysnomia]

Cats, electric guitars, candy bars

eeeeelectric guitar candy bars
cats in heat i like boys who are a little bit taller and have more muscles and less acne (or maybe the opposite, if you’re into the type of guy who doesn’t go to school) and i don’t care that they smoke weed or that they drink beer; i’m just going to be able to see their eyes for once instead of having my whole world blocked by some stupid poster on his locker. Evan was one of those guys who didn’t do things out of spite. He knew what he did and he wasn’t doing it to hurt anyone or even himself.

Yeah kid. Your band is totally gonna make it. Just don't drop out of high school yet ok? Maybe take one of those trade courses. But you are totally gonna make it.

I hope he's good at flipping burgers....

 

[Skitarii]

My name is Joshua Conner Moon, I run a forum for retards on the internet. This is my story.
There was only one person in this world that I could talk to about this, and he would laugh his ass off. But if anyone were to read this they’d think it was an insane story. And if anyone told me that they believed it they’d be lying. Because there are very few people who know just how fucked up my life truly is.
I live alone in a small apartment, one of those places where you have an actual bed and not a futon on the floor. My room has two windows facing east and west. The first window faces out towards the street below while the second face is directly into the apartment, looking at my own bed and desk. My laptop sits on my left side, resting against the edge of the bed and right next to my phone, which is currently dead. That’s fine, because I don’t have much else going on today. So I just sit in my chair and stare outside, as if somehow this will help me process all that’s happened over the past ten years.
Ten years ago, when I was thirteen years old, a man came to my house and forced me to come with him. His name was Michael Jackson, and after he had convinced me that being friends with him was safer than staying alone, we became friends. It was the most awkward friendship ever, but it made us both happy. We went everywhere together, went shopping, ate lunch, played video games together. When we weren’t doing anything we were watching movies or playing video games. He helped me get through so many things before, and I didn’t care anymore, because he was always by my side.
That was four years ago. Now, he’s gone. In all honesty, I’m pretty sure he died. There aren’t any pictures of him anywhere, or even videos of him. They stopped sending me emails about his death three weeks ago, and I haven’t heard from them since then. If you ask anyone who knows him, they’ll say Michael ‘loved’ to travel the world. That’s bullshit, though. I can remember one day sitting next to him in a plane and him talking nonstop about every place he visited. He talked until the plane landed. He talked until we got off the plane. He talked until he walked outside of our airport. No one talks like that anymore. They never did.
A few days after he died, my best friend, Tyler Dunbar, found a letter in his mailbox. He called me immediately and demanded to know everything. Then he started crying. As much as I hate to admit it, he cried harder than I did, because he knew Michael like no other person alive.

New josh moon lore

 

[Esau]

Satan is cast out of Heaven , and has been banished to a different world. He has no wings because they have been taken from him, but he still has his horns and red eyes and fangs. It's hard to keep this new look as he walks through his old home and sees the destruction that has befallen it, and the bodies of fallen angels lying everywhere. Some are dead, and others will never wake up again, but even as Lucifer looks on, he can't help but feel a twinge of guilt for what his followers have done. But it doesn't stop him from being furious with them. He turns his back and continues walking away from the scene of the crime. He knows what he has to do now; there is one angel who needs more killing than the rest and Lucifer wants nothing more than to see his face again. This is why, after leaving the place where he came to know his people so well, he makes his way over to Crowley's old house. He is sure that Crowley won' t leave until he finds Lucifer, and since he is certain that he already left before, it's only a matter of time until he does. Crowley has been running for hours. All he wants is to find somewhere safe to hide, but there are always demons around, and he just can' t go in hiding any longer. He needs to get out of here, somehow, and fast, but where could he go? He doesn't want to go home, because he knows that everyone there would try to kill him for having come back. If there was anywhere else, but this, where could he go?

 

[Neurotypical Mantis]

so is this another novelai/aidungeon competitor?

 

[comfysocks]

so is this another novelai/aidungeon competitor?

Yes. I saw it recommended on AI Dungeon's steam review page. The steam version is getting shit reviews.

 

[Grub]

Op is a homo. He is one hundred percent gay and his biggest secret is that he’s gay. His best friend, however, has no idea. Op just keeps it to himself and lets people figure things out. It’s not really any of their business anyway.
And so, he hides behind the walls he built with the help of his mom. She always knew something was up with him. She told him she would keep her mouth shut but Op knows she would never be able to stay quiet forever. He also doesn’t blame her, after all it’s his life and he shouldn’t have to hide anything from her. But this, this is what Op can handle. This he can do alone. As far as his friends are concerned it’s just like how he used to dress and act around them before they found out he’s trans. The only difference is now he wears a shirt with the words “SORRY I’M GAY AND DICKHEADED” on it along with sweatpants with a black bandana over his forehead and black glasses on his nose. It seems pretty normal for most people anyways so why bother hiding?
No one cares about him.
Not even his mother does. So what if he likes guys? If there’s one thing Op is good at it’s keeping secrets.
That’s all he ever wanted to do as a child. And now that he’s finally grown out of it he finds himself wondering why no one in his family cared about him enough to tell him. Why would anyone want to hang out with someone so annoying? No one wanted him at all. Except his mother maybe. But she’s dead so he supposes that isn’t fair. But that still doesn’t explain why no one has bothered to look into his sexuality since his mom died. So Op decides to make an effort for once. Maybe it will bring him some sort of relief or satisfaction. Who knows? All Op knows is that one day he is going to be okay with being who he is. One day he’ll let the world know just how much he loves men as well as boys. One day everyone in school will get what they deserve. Op hopes that day comes sooner rather than later. Sure he was teased but he could take it. Now that the spotlight has shifted onto him, it makes him feel uneasy. Like he's losing control. Like someone else has taken control over his body, mind, and everything he holds dear. That person might seem nice but they're definitely not Op. Not anymore. Op hates himself sometimes. Hates every part of him for turning out exactly the way he did when he was young and naïve. For being so weak. For getting bullied everyday for simply existing. For getting bullied because of who he identifies as. And it wasn't even just bullies, no it was everyone in general. He was ostracised by his peers. By his teachers. By his parents for loving him even though he had nothing in common with them. For loving his mother even though her name was Rose. For loving men who didn’t treat Op like the other boys did. Maybe it would have been better if Op hadn’t come out to his parents until after he'd finished highschool but that wouldn't have made them understand how much Op felt like shit. How much Op hated himself. How much Op wished he could go back to being a little boy again. It was hard enough trying to live with his father. To try and pretend that he was happy. To pretend that he loved his father. To pretend that he was okay with being gay. To pretend that he didn't hate himself. That he was content. That he didn't feel so worthless. Op had tried doing it all for three years before he couldn’t take it anymore. When his father had found out about Op's feelings, he had gone on a rampage. They'd fought for nearly two months, Op shouting back at him in defense until eventually the yelling stopped and the fighting resumed. But Op was tired. Tired of having to fight, tired of living. Tired of pretending. Tired of feeling so useless. So small and broken that no matter how loud Op screamed, nothing could stop his father. And the worst thing was that Op knew his father deserved it. He'd done everything wrong in Op's eyes. Op opened his father's nightstand drawer. Op took a bottle of pills hidden under a pair of socks. Op swallowed them all without water. He felt dizzy. Sick. Like he couldn't breathe. The room started spinning and Op fell to the floor. His dad ran upstairs screaming. Op didn't hear his footsteps. He heard another door slam somewhere downstairs. Then everything went silent. Op was in shock. He sat there in silence, staring at the bottle of pills in front of him. He picked it up slowly and brought it to his lips. He hesitated and then tipped the contents into his mouth. He gagged a few times from the overwhelming taste of the pills but managed to swallow them down. It hurt. It burned all the way down to his stomach. He gasped, clutching his tummy in pain but the feeling was dulled almost immediately. It was strange. Everything felt numb. Op closed his eyes, thinking back to all those sleepless nights and nights spent lying in bed, terrified that he'd wake up to find he'd somehow suffocated to death in his sleep.
The next time Op opened his eyes the room was brighter. Much brighter. Op stared dazedly through his tears at his ceiling. He tried to move but his limbs refused to respond. He felt sick to his stomach. The nausea grew worse as Op felt a familiar sensation crawl across his skin. Goosebumps formed along his arms as a shiver wracked his body. Op looked down at his lap and noticed with horror that his hands were covered in blood. He looked more closely and saw that he was bleeding from his wrists too. Op reached down and touched his hands, finding them cold. A rush of panic rushed through him as he wondered where the blood was coming from. It seemed so dark. As Op looked closer the stain spread further and further until it reached his chest. The smell filled Op's nostrils and he choked on a sob. Op's vision swam as he struggled to breath. He felt as if a thousand razor blades were cutting his lungs and his heart simultaneously. Blood trickled out of his nose, staining his white tshirt red. Op squeezed his eyes shut hoping it would stop. He waited for the pain to pass. It didn't. Op opened his eyes to see that the blood had spread further down his legs. The sight made Op's head spin. Op's heart pounded in his chest and his throat began closing up. His breaths came quicker and faster. In an instant, Op felt himself begin to choke. He tried desperately to suck in air but nothing worked. Op coughed violently, struggling to gasp for a breath. Sweat dotted his forehead despite the fact that it was freezing cold. The only sound left was his own panicked gasping. Op's face turned purple and suddenly his limbs weren't working. His eyes rolled back into his head. His breathing ceased and he collapsed, dead.

 

[The Last Stand]

What's annoying about this AI is it's stuck in the present. I'm trying to immerse myself in my Joan Crawford fiction, and it wants to talk about cell phones. NO.

"Cut! Print! That's a wrap, we'll try again tomorrow. Beautiful performance, Joan Crawford!"


The producer calls out to her as she makes her way to the changing room. Joan smiles at him and gives him her usual nod, before walking into the women's dressing room with an eye roll. She's still tired from last night and wants nothing more than to go home and get some sleep, but instead, here she is, trying to keep herself awake so she can make it back to her hotel room by tonight.

She sighs and looks over at the director who's giving her a knowing look, which makes her frown slightly. "You know this part isn't really for you. Just for fun." He says as he turns to leave. "And what's wrong with that? I'm perfectly capable of working my ass off for hours on end just to make it through one day, if that's what it takes." she retorts without thinking. Her words echo around the now empty room and suddenly, someone else walks through the door, their head snapping up quickly at the sound.

Joan looks away and tries not to feel embarrassed for being caught yelling at the director like this; she was simply stating facts. The girl doesn't seem to think it's worth saying anything else though because after a moment, she nods silently at her and heads to another dressing room, leaving Joan wondering where the hell that came from. It wasn't until she hears her say something to the director that Joan realizes that they probably heard the whole thing.

She doesn't even want to imagine how everyone else will react to seeing her like this, especially when she knows that they're all expecting her to take the role next year. After another few minutes, she's alone again and Joan leans against the wall, taking off her makeup and grabbing her things before making her way outside towards her car. There are already a number of people waiting around for their rides and Joan thinks she spots someone familiar in the crowd. As soon as she sees him, it feels like she's being watched.

 

[MAPK phosphatase]

The snub-nose revolver slid from it's leather as Ol' Johnny Two-Guns flicked the barrel at the rival gunslinger not 20 paces down the road. Three shots rang out, and the townsfolk watched, or turned away, or plugged their ears. 10 years of running, 10 years of fear, 10 years after he watched that man shoot his father in cold blood.

Spoiler: Generated Text

Ten years after they had buried him alive with a shovel. That man was dead, and Johnny Two felt no grief over it. His hands shook as they held the gun steady in front of him. The sound, the shot, the body, all disappeared into the wind.
The next thing he knew his legs were moving. They brought him across town to where those men sat under the porch of the saloon. Two were drinking beers. One, Johnny didn't know, but who cared? He could see what would happen, could picture the words coming from that man’s mouth if he got within earshot. He stopped about three feet from them, breathing heavy, heart pounding in his chest. A moment passed and then one of the other men stood. "Hey!"
Johnny kept walking toward them until he reached the table, pistol still pointed forward. They both stared back at him with blank faces, beer cans hanging forgotten from limp fingers. Their eyes were wide and dark. They were staring at a stranger, an armed man, standing just a few feet away. It was a shocker and Johnny wasn't quite sure what to say. There were a couple of words rolling around in his mind: ‘shoot first, ask questions later.’ But his hands were shaking, too hard to pull the trigger. Finally, a look of recognition crossed one man’s face and he said something softly enough that the other man couldn't hear it.
Then Johnny Two came to his senses. His hand snapped up and grabbed the first man by the throat. Then he started choking. It took another two minutes of struggling before the man went limp. Blood gushed from his neck as the life faded from his eyes. Johnny dropped him, stumbled to the ground, and curled into a ball. He cried like he hadn' done in almost twenty years. When he looked up he saw the other man watching him with something akin to sympathy on his face. "I didn' mean to shoot you," he whispered. "I'm sorry
Johnny nodded without looking at him. What did it matter? If he'd been alone, this man would've killed him anyway.

I don't like it.