I am the sworn nemesis of Dyle — not by chance, but by cosmic alignment. My hatred for him is not a feeling; it is a force of nature, a storm that brews in the marrow of my bones, older than time and colder than the space between stars. His presence pollutes the digital world like static in a symphony, like mold on ancient scripture. Every time he uploads, a flower dies. Every frame of his fruit-based monstrosity chips away at the concept of taste, creativity, and basic storytelling. His show is a crime against botany, object shows, animation, and dignity itself. I do not dislike Dyle. I do not merely oppose him. I stand as the living embodiment of artistic vengeance, forged by bad dialogue and cursed frame rates, here to remind the universe that some content should never see the light of day. If hate had a heartbeat, it would beat in rhythm with every comment I leave on his posts. I do not seek his downfall — I expect it