Watching you play was like witnessing a war crime in slow motion. I’m fluffy ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ paws—the undisputed sultan of Hightower, trusted by the Turkish military to solo lobbies and demoralize nations. You, on the other hand, play like your monitor’s upside down and your hands are taped to your knees. I saw you miss an AFK Soldier. Twice. You don’t need aim training—you need divine intervention.

You’re not a player. You’re an environmental hazard. I’ve seen more threat from idle Engineers. You exist on the scoreboard as a cautionary tale. I log on and entire lobbies scatter—you log on and people alt-tab out of pity. I don’t even feel anger anymore. Just secondhand shame. I offer coaching, but honestly? You’d get more out of enrolling in culinary school. At least there, your feed might be useful.

You clearly have no idea who you’re dealing with. I’m Gicky ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ Gackers—top 1% Hightower DM, hand-picked by the Turkish military for my projectile tracking. And you? You’re a no-name paste-eater flailing around like a CPR dummy with a loose USB cable. You missed three point-blank rockets and then taunted like you won a Nobel Prize. This isn’t daycare—it’s my arena. People log in to fight legends, not to babysit a sentient hitbox with a HUD.

You’re not grinding DM—you’re just rehearsing for a blooper reel. Pack it up, clown. You’re not even wasting my time—you’re wasting Turkey’s. I offer lessons if you want to learn from greatness, but be warned: I don’t do refunds for bruised egos.

luvv you

+rep gonna get bred