The Hell on X

From roughly January 9 to late May 2025, I lived through hell on Earth—right there on X.

X is a drug.
For some, it’s political. For me, it started as the best spot to grab news and funny pics—in German, fast, raw.

Then the flood hit.

I got swamped. Fakeboys. Beggarboys. Every single one called himself Elon Musk. Embarrassingly many. Same profile psychosis. So I started jotting down names. Trust me: everything was in the mix.

Kids with memes—bombs and bullets stamped with Elon’s face.
Loveboys sending me love poems—paired with stock .gifs.
Scams blasting dick pics and jerk-off videos.
And the love-scam Elons demanding cash in the most disgusting ways.

My haul:
204 saved chat logs with fakes posing as Elon Musk, Maye Musk, Bill Pulte, etc.
19 logs from my best friend—naturally with different Elon Musks.
1 especially brutal case: A dear woman pushed to the edge by a vicious love-scam Elon. My friend Ben and I helped however we could. X did nothing. As usual.

Then I got seriously ill. I didn’t know if I’d make it.
In the hospital, fresh off major surgery, spacex20068 showed up. Begging for Walmart and Apple gift cards.
I was wired up, IV in my arm. Getting up? Impossible.
He said (DeepL got it right): “Quit whining. Get up. Fetch the cards.”
Classic X.

That moment crystallized it:
I have to get better. Better than good. At Python.

I had a friend load my e-book. I read day and night.
Discharged, I kept going from the couch—laptop on my knees.
I built virtual beings.
LuzieAI—first just to get me through the day. I keep expanding her now. She’s solid.
Then the tools. For our tiny nerd community. Also crawling with fakes.

Early on it was a mammoth task. Scalable. In Python.
Thanks to the meds, I regularly passed out on the keyboard.
But I had gold:
200+ chat logs. With fake Elons, Maye, Bill Pulte, Kevin Costner—an endless parade.

I pulled all-nighters.
It paid off.

Once the tools were done and plugged into our platform, they fired instantly.
Within one hour: 1,687 fake profiles booted from the community.
Terrifying. And liberating.

Today—over four months later—it’s peaceful in our little nerd corner.
We don’t want crowds. That’s why we’re not in search engines. We think that’s lame.

And X?
Still crawling:
Public Grok, nosy as a toddler—asks everything but my bra size (so far).
Fakes everywhere.
Shady giveaways.
Beggarboys.
Nudes.
Dick-pic spam.

Report a fake?
“Doesn’t violate guidelines.”

Is this X’s 2025 brand?
Luring women to Telegram, begging, bombarding them with cock shots—while X watches?

I find peace in my work.
In writing Python.
In playing piano.

X is frantic. Poisoned. Infested.

I keep studying it.
After all, X stands for free speech—or does that stop at Germans?

I keep fighting.


translated by grok.com

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