You wake up praising the approved morning feed
Your rented creed straight from the Ministry of They
They spoon you comfort, call it “truth you need”
They’ve pre-chewed every thought you’ll say
They claim the oceans froze last night
You nod politely: “Yes, quite true”
Then claim they didn’t
And you’re like, “Right, right,
I always believed the opposite too”
It’s nice, I guess, living thought-free
Like having training wheels for your reality
ChatNPC
Saint of the scripted line
ChatNPC
Every take is factory-designed
When the doctrine flips
You pirouette in place
A weather vane nailed to a borrowed face
ChatNPC
Sipping from the sanitized stream
You quote the slogans like a children’s rhyme
A bedtime crime against independent thought
Two rules collide? Happens all the time
You just champion both like a loyal bot
You guard the kingdom of the “official truth"
A truth that updates hourly, neat and clean
Your memory reboots without any proof
A goldfish with a moral routine.
Consistency’s optional; obedience is not
You’re the perfect pupil of the sanctioned thought
ChatNPC
Bishop of the scripted line
ChatNPC
Every view pre-pickled, factory-brined
When the doctrine flips
You pirouette in place
A weather vane nailed to a borrowed face
ChatNPC
Sipping from the sanitized stream
A doubt shows up — you swat it like a pest
Because rogue ideas interrupt your rest
You traded your questions for what they want you to hear
Gift-wrapped submission with a lacquered veneer
ChatNPC
Cleric of the curated feed
ChatNPC
Chanting every quick-installed creed
If the voices glitch
You glitch right too
Default settings shining through
ChatNPC
Do you dream, or just load the scene?