Superstonerdve420

A One-Man War Against Relevance (And Himself) “He called himself a philosopher. The internet called him a joke. His mom just called the cops.” Zach — or as he prefers to be known, Logos — is the kind of white man who buys a globe just to spin it during rants. A fringe live-streamer on a platform so cursed it gives your laptop HPV, Zach preaches his gospel of "Western greatness" from a dimly lit basement surrounded by secondhand microphones, a sparsely populated bookshelf he keeps to look smart, and the unmistakable scent of Axe Body Spray and failure. This isn't just a character study. This is a digital autopsy. Zach streams ever so often to a loyal fanbase of three bots, two trolls, and one terrified libertarian. His show opens with a synth version of Ram Ranch and ends with a Red Bull-induced breakdown about why no women “respect real men” anymore. He says “based” like it’s punctuation. He uses “degenerate” like it's a spell. He’s been shadowbanned more times than he's been hugged. Once, he tried to own the libs by reading Mein Kampf to a Black man on stream. It went exactly how you think. He speaks in rants and breathes in cope. His bookshelf? Pure theater. His masculinity? Leased, late, and overdrawn. He calls himself “alpha” but flinches every time someone says “Trogs.” He hides his shame behind Latin phrases, misquoted philosophers, and long-winded sermons on "tradition," which — for Zach — means refusing to admit he once cried watching Brokeback Mountain. He's not gay, of course. He just watches men wrestle shirtless on YouTube for “aesthetic reasons.” Every moment of the song rips another mask off until there's nothing left but a sad, angry boy with a lighting rig and a fantasy of being feared. But Logos isn’t feared. He isn’t even noticed. Because Zach is not dangerous. Zach is not a threat. Zach is digital white noise: A fragile ego wrapped in a trench coat of buzzwords, Screaming into a server no one backed up. “LOGOS: The Internet Is Forever” is a pitch-black dark comedy. A scorched-earth roast. A funeral with no guests, no flowers, just one lonely modem still blinking. By the time he logs off for the last time — banned, ignored, broken — the only sound left is the echo of his final chat message: “You’ll miss me when I’m gone.” Spoiler: We didn’t.

Some men scream into the void. Giuseppe eats dessert in it. Meet Giuseppe: a 50-something failed live streamer, former anti-woke warrior, part-time recliner philosopher, and full-time walking midlife crisis. His opinions are outdated, his equipment is broken, and his wife hasn't smiled at him since Obama took office. He lives in a crumbling suburban tomb with two Huskies, both clinically depressed, and a third that escaped through the crawlspace and has been living a better life ever since. The TV only plays static now. The coffee tastes like regret. The fridge contains nothing but expired yogurt and a single cannoli, lovingly preserved like a shrine to the last time he felt alive. Giuseppe doesn’t cry anymore. He just chews slowly and stares into the void. His wife communicates only in shrugs and audible sighs. His livestream audience? 11 racists and a guy named “BigDennis69” who just won’t leave. His podcast? Canceled by his own dog. Then, one night, while rage-Googling "emotional damage Japan gold glue fix thing," Giuseppe finds Kintsukuroi — the art of mending broken pottery with gold. Something clicks. Something breaks harder. He sees himself in those cracks. Not just metaphorically. Literally — there’s a shard of mirror in his cannoli and he bites down without flinching. Awakened by existential dread and a mild concussion, Giuseppe picks up his old guitar (which smells like damp dog and marinara) and channels his spiraling grief into an unlikely masterpiece: “Kintsukuroi, Your Love Is My Gold” — a doom metal elegy for a man who lost everything but can still taste powdered sugar. It’s angry. It’s vulnerable. It’s the sound of a marriage rotting in real-time. And somehow… it goes viral. His TikTok clip (set to a slow zoom of him weeping into a half-eaten cannoli) gets 80,000 views. Teenagers call him the “Doom Dad of Sadness.” One reviewer calls the album “a powerful exploration of post-love masculinity and bakery-based existentialism.” But none of it fills the void. Except the cannoli. Always the cannoli.

Giuseppe once screamed into a mic like his life depended on it. Now he screams into a webcam because no one else will listen. In the early 2000s, Giuseppe was the eyeliner-wearing frontman of Ashes of Verona, a third-rate emo-metal band known for tragic lyrics, shirtless tantrums, and exactly one gig at a bowling alley. The band broke up, the dreams died, and Giuseppe slowly calcified into a suburban relic: balding, bitter, and bloated on cannoli and conspiracy theories. At 55, he lives in a crumbling house with Tonya, his emotionally-evacuated wife who’s more invested in her vape flavors than their marriage. Their huskies, Odin and Luna, refuse to obey him and may, in fact, be plotting his downfall. Giuseppe spends his days live-streaming angry rants to a dozen fringe followers who call him “Big Truth.” He screams about immigrants, feminism, oat milk, whatever’s trending on his rage feed. But inside, he’s a deflated teenager in cargo shorts and corpse paint, quietly mourning the life he never lived. One night — drunk, lonely, and nostalgic — Giuseppe finds a dusty MP3 titled "Tragic Innocence." It’s a forgotten demo: a haunting scream-ballad from his old band, written at his most vulnerable, before bitterness won. He plays it on stream by accident. The internet goes feral. The song blows up on TikTok, hailed as “a feral elegy for lost dreams.” Teenagers use it to soundtrack thirst traps, poetry edits, and mental breakdowns. Emo revivalists call it “post-post-hardcore perfection.” Spotify playlists shove it between Bring Me The Horizon and Phoebe Bridgers. Suddenly, Giuseppe is cool again. No — Giuseppe is iconic. But he doesn’t understand why. He doesn’t feel anything. And everyone around him is cashing in on the feelings he lost. Tonya signs with a talent agent. A record label offers Giuseppe a comeback tour. Odin is scouted by a dog-food influencer brand. Giuseppe just wants to yell about chemtrails in peace. But the world wants him to cry. Or worse: to feel something real again.

"I Lost It All to Cream and Trolls" is a country ballad soaked in self-pity, heavy cream, and the digital tears of a man who mistook bigotry for branding. Written by Giuseppe — a disgraced, middle-aged livestreamer whose mic is fried and whose dogs have turned feral — this sad, funny, and unsettlingly sticky track tells the tale of one man’s fall from irrelevant to infamous. In true country fashion, Giuseppe recounts the ruins of his life: his wife Tonya gone (lured away by a troll with memes and working Wi-Fi), his huskies now openly hostile, and his podcast exiled from every platform this side of Facebook. But unlike traditional heartbreak ballads, Giuseppe’s enemy isn’t heartbreak — it’s Chudwick, a digital gremlin who remixed his hate-filled rants into K-pop edits and sold deepfakes of him as a dessert cow. What follows is a slow, steel-guitar-soaked spiral into self-parody. Giuseppe weeps into his fat rolls, whispers broken affirmations to himself (“That’s a great point”), and rocks alone in the glow of a busted ring light, the only thing still willing to shine on him. Equal parts Hee-Haw and Black Mirror, this song is a twisted elegy for men who mistake volume for value — a country funeral dirge for clout-chasing bigots who couldn’t outrun the internet, their metabolism, or their own dogs.

"Angel Mine" Written by Giuseppe — a 50 something-year-old, overweight live streamer and self-proclaimed “truth rocker” whose blood pressure is one bad cannoli away from catastrophic. He runs a nightly stream from his garage (which doubles as a weight bench/ham radio station) under the username @MetalRealmsGiuseppe, where he rants about fluoride, cancel culture, and the tragic decline of Dio-era Sabbath while his two undisciplined huskies, Diesel and Freedom, gnaw on his mic cables. His wife, Tonya, has mentally and emotionally ghosted him. She hasn’t watched one of his streams in six years and refers to his music as “screaming marinara nonsense.” She keeps threatening to move in with her cousin in Tampa but stays out of sheer inertia (and probably mild schadenfreude). And then it happens. After a night of chugging Monster Energy and eating an entire box of discount cannoli, Giuseppe claims he receives a cosmic transmission—not from Earth, not from Tonya, but from an interdimensional goddess he believes is his twin flame. Her name, he insists, cannot be spoken—only screamed. Thus, "Angel Mine" is born. The song is a two minute forty nine second, double-kick drum, throat-shredding love anthem that blends apocalyptic riffs with spiritual delusion. It begins with a whispered Rumi quote, awkwardly overlaid with distant thunder, and then erupts into a wall of distorted guitars, unintelligible screams, and a haunting chorus that repeats “MY! MY! MY! ANGEL MINE!” like a Gregorian chant being screamed by a man in a Slipknot mask. Giuseppe describes the track as “a soul contract written in fire.” Listeners describe it as “what it sounds like when your uncle has a breakdown during karaoke.” Key lyrics like: “YOUR LOVE HEALS MY PAIN! YOUR LOVE HEAAAALLLLSS!!” ...are howled with such throat-destroying intensity that Giuseppe actually passed out mid-recording. He later described it as "a spiritual seizure, but in a good way." Tonya calls it “auditory domestic violence.” The song premieres during a live stream titled "They Said I Was Crazy (But So Was Jesus)", where Giuseppe, drenched in sweat and wearing an Affliction shirt two sizes too small, headbangs in front of a glitchy slideshow of space angels, ancient ruins, and screenshots of his DMs with some OF model named StarseedGoddess420. Ironically—or perhaps inevitably—the song goes viral. Not for its power. Not for its passion. But because someone edited it over a TikTok of a toddler screaming at a goat, and it syncs perfectly. Still, Giuseppe takes this as confirmation from the Universe. He begins work on a full concept album titled "Metal Hearts & Quantum Souls", including tracks like “Cannoli of Destiny” and “Tonya Never Understood the Light.” Meanwhile, Tonya’s already downloaded a dating app. The huskies piss in his guitar case. Giuseppe uploads another shirtless vlog. But every night, he lights a single candle (scent: Napalm & Nutmeg), straps on his wireless mic, and screams into the void: “ANGEL MINE — TRANSCENDING TIME! SHARING A LOVE! A LOVE DIVINE!!!” The neighbors file another noise complaint. Giuseppe reaches enlightenment.

"You Loved Cannoli More Than Me" is Giuseppe’s estranged wife’s musical mic drop—the bitter, buttery, country-goth revenge anthem no one saw coming, except maybe the huskies. Equal parts heartbreak, pastry slander, and stream-related psychological warfare, this song drips with sarcasm, sadness, and residual powdered sugar. The opening lines set the stage: she once stood in the soft glow of kitchen intimacy… now she's just stepping over husky pee and watching her husband mutter sweet nothings to his webcam. The emotional center of the song? That he didn't cheat with another woman—he cheated with dessert. Dozens of them. Night after night. Tray after tray. Cream-filled betrayal in every bite. Each verse unpacks layers of domestic decay like a forensic love autopsy. He ignored her pleas. He sided with chat users named things like “TroggLad420.” He replaced pillow talk with conspiracy theories about moderators. And she—once the woman of his dreams—was left to sweep up pastry flakes and broken promises. The chorus is a weapon: "You loved cannoli more than me / More than trust or sanity…” It’s brutal, catchy, and somehow both sad and hilarious—like watching someone cry during a food fight. By the bridge, the tone shifts from angry to intimate, as she recalls watching Giuseppe disappear bite by bite, her heartbreak punctuated by his final words: “Babe… the filling’s pink.” It’s absurd. It’s tragic. It’s a devastating breakup letter to an Italian dessert—and yet, it’s also one of the most honest things ever written about loving someone who’d rather stream at 3AM with strangers named “Chad” than look you in the eye. The final chorus hits like a slap with a cold cannoli—firm, final, and covered in powdered regret. It’s not just a song—it’s closure in 6/8 time.

In “Fading from View,” Giuseppe trades in synth pads for steel guitar, letting his pain twang across the plains like a cowboy who never owned a horse, but definitely cried into one. It’s his first foray into country music—and somehow, it fits a little too well. This is classic country Giuseppe: lost time, dead dreams, family dysfunction, and just enough poetic nonsense to make you wonder if he’s okay. The chorus, “Feels like I’m fading… like a dream that never came true,” sounds like something you'd hear at 2AM in a dive bar while a trucker softly weeps into his third beer and fourth divorce. He sings of “50 years gone in the blink of an eye,” but you get the feeling Giuseppe blinked a lot, and missed all of them on purpose. There's the usual heartbreak, but now it’s wrapped in twang and sadness with lyrics like “Had a son — he was my father,” which sounds less like a metaphor and more like a Maury episode that spiraled. By the second verse, he’s fully leaning into country tropes: lost children, betrayal, regret, and possibly a dog that left him emotionally (though he never confirms if the dog is real or metaphorical). The song’s slow, weary rhythm makes it sound like it’s trying to fall asleep halfway through—just like Giuseppe. And the finale? “Say so long… say farewell…”—a broken whisper under the shimmer of a sad slide guitar, as Giuseppe disappears into the sunset of his own pity party, riding a mechanical bull of raw emotion. It’s country. It’s tragic. It’s unintentionally hilarious. It’s Giuseppe—fading from view, but never from your memory. Unfortunately.

"Dragonfly" is Giuseppe’s most hauntingly beautiful track—a gentle, melancholic meditation on grief, letting go, and the search for peace in a chaotic world. Unlike his louder, more tortured works, this song drifts like the insect it’s named after—soft, mysterious, and fragile. The dragonfly in the song isn’t just an insect; it’s a symbol of transformation, a spiritual messenger gliding between worlds. Giuseppe uses it as a poetic stand-in for someone he’s lost—possibly a loved one who struggled deeply, someone who left this world seeking peace. The lyrics dance between reality and the mystical, blurring the lines between a nature scene and a spiritual visitation. As the dragonfly “whispers secrets” and “carries words on the breeze,” Giuseppe sings of messages from beyond—gentle reassurances that the pain is over, the struggle has ended, and freedom has finally been found. The chorus, repeated with quiet reverence—“She’s happy / finally free”—feels like a message Giuseppe desperately wants to believe. More subdued than his usual rants and self-pity, “Dragonfly” reveals a quieter, more poetic side of Giuseppe—a man aching for connection, finding fleeting meaning in the flutter of wings and the hush of twilight.

"Candle in the Rain" is Giuseppe’s raw, emotional ballad—a desperate cry from a man lost in the fog of his own life. Framed in poetic metaphor, the song tells the story of a fragile flame flickering in a storm, symbolizing Giuseppe’s fading sense of hope, purpose, and identity. The candle represents his inner light—small, stubborn, but still burning—while the relentless rain mirrors the constant disappointments and emotional neglect he endures. In verse after verse, Giuseppe sings of being overlooked, unheard, and misunderstood. His lyrics touch on everything: a love grown cold (his wife), dreams that never took off (his failed streaming career), and the loneliness of shouting into the void (both online and off). Even his dogs seem woven into the chorus—chaotic forces that won't be tamed, much like life itself. Yet despite the bleakness, the song isn’t entirely hopeless. The final verse shifts subtly—acknowledging that while the rain may never stop, the candle still burns. Faint. Pathetic. But alive. It's tragic. It's earnest. It's unintentionally funny in places—but to Giuseppe, "Candle in the Rain" is his soul on display. His magnum opus. The one thing he truly believes in… even if it only has 13 plays on SoundCloud.

Giuseppe, is a man built like a beanbag chair with opinions. His thinning long hair—greasy, stubborn, and inexplicably windblown indoors—frames a face locked in a permanent scowl, like he just smelled something offensive (which, to be fair, he probably did—it might have been himself). He’s balding, but refuses to admit it, often blaming “camera angles” or “hat hair” for the barren tundra forming atop his skull. Once a promising something-or-other (he forgets what), Giuseppe is now a full-time live streamer broadcasting from his dimly lit man-cave, which smells faintly of regret and cheese dust. His streams consist of ranting, eating cannoli on-camera like it’s performance art, and arguing with people in his chat—most of whom are bots or trolls, both of whom are winning. His wife hasn’t spoken to him in weeks, communicating solely through the strategically timed slamming of doors. She drifts through the house like a ghost, haunting the kitchen and occasionally muttering “mistake” under her breath. Giuseppe’s two huskies, Loki and Meatball, don’t listen to a single command and regularly urinate with defiance and eye contact. They are, objectively, the alphas of the household. Every day follows the same tragic ritual: wake up at noon, inhale three cannoli, yell about "Those damn Blacks and Jews!" into a webcam, get banned from a subreddit, try to train the dogs (fail), microwave dinner, pass out in the chair he’s fused with, repeat. His last attempt at exercise was clicking “maybe” on a YouTube ad for a home workout plan. And yet, in the wreckage of his routine, Giuseppe persists—clutching his half-eaten cannoli like a sad trophy, crowned king of a crumbling digital kingdom where nobody’s watching, but he’s still yelling anyway.