My fav playstation game :)

Reinstalled windows just for the love of it

You can lead a horse to water but you cannot make it drink. You can lead a man to wisdom but you cannot make him think.
For the thinking, like the drinking, requires that he is thirsty. Without the thirst for knowledge, he is worse off than at first.
He's memorized the facts but cannot use them as a tool. So, he's gone from merely ignorant to an educated fool.

~L. A. Holme

Real

This is ridiculous😳

Im asking this because 2 or 3 years ago, 90% of my subs were indians :)

I am a sick man. [...] I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I believe my liver is diseased. However, I know nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for certain what ails me. I don't consult a doctor for it, and never have, though I have a respect for medicine and doctors. Besides, I am extremely superstitious, sufficiently so to respect medicine, anyway I am well-educated enough not to be superstitious, but I am superstitious. No, I refuse to consult a doctor from spite. That you probably will not understand. Well, I understand it, though. Of course, I can't explain who it is precisely that I am mortifying in this case by my spite: I am perfectly well aware that I cannot "pay out" the doctors by not consulting them; I know better than anyone that by all this I am only injuring myself and no one else. But still, if I don't consult a doctor it is from spite. My liver is bad, well--let it get worse! I have been going on like that for a long time--twenty years. Now I am forty. I used to be in the government service, but am no longer. I was a spiteful official. I was rude and took pleasure in being so. I did not take bribes, you see, so I was bound to find recompense in that, at least. A poor jest, but I will not scratch it out. I wrote it thinking it would sound very witty; but now that I have seen myself that I only wanted to show off in a despicable way, I will not scratch it out on purpose!
― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes From Underground

Gregor’s transformation into an insect isn’t just about his body changing; it’s about how people stop seeing him as human once he’s no longer useful to them. The sadness isn’t in the monster he becomes, but in how quickly love turns into rejection. Kafka reminds us that real isolation begins when others decide you no longer matter.

Kafka didn’t just write about transformation; he wrote about the quiet cruelty of being unseen.

Gregor’s tragedy wasn’t his body. It was realizing that love had conditions.