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Bravo Johnson
@bravojohnson
Just a few years ago, under the golden dusk of late-stage empire and the gig economy, the vampire was a vibe. They stalked the night murmuring Baudelaire under neon rain. They were gentrifiers with fangs, lurking in curated lofts, sipping plasma spritzers, whispering about the aesthetic of the hustle. You were supposed to want the job and you wanted them to bite you. Queue Orlock/Nosferatu rising again, rat-faced and ravenous, creeping through the rotting infrastructure. He doesn’t need permission to enter. He does not do brooding glances or existential regret. He feeds. You, in turn, wither. Your friends don’t get a sexy leather-clad eternity. They get hollowed-out husks, drained in alleys, discarded like expired product. Then there’s plague. 2025 vampires don’t love you. They don’t even like you. They are here to consume, and no, you will not be transformed into some midnight demigod. You will just be someone’s sustained nutrition.
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Bravo Johnson pfp
Bravo Johnson
@bravojohnson
Back in the ZIRP years, the vampires were venture-backed. They didn’t need to kill you outright—just nibble a little, just enough to keep you vertical, keep the cash flow positive. They called it synergy. You called it your job. Today the economy isn’t pretending anymore. The vests aren’t whispering sweet nothings about culture while they gut your benefits. The layoffs aren’t gentle. The buyouts aren’t padded. It’s down to the bones now—just old-school, Transylvanian, bloodsucking need. Welcome back. The vampires were always like this. You so longed to be noticed by them, desperate for a glimpse of from their cold, predatory cool that you didn’t notice the decomposing mass and the rot festering lurking in the dark behind the scenes
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