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Its like being an rapist, a burglar. I'm waiting, sitting, sifting. First I just look. Praying for an opportunity, I look, pass over the newest posts, the freshest statements. The new ideas, the questions, the rants and the flames. There's angry people on the internet, people who are just positive that someone else is very, very wrong.

Me, I'm a step above that. I weigh opinions evenly, so long as they're written with near perfect grammar. I allow space for both sides of a debate, look for compromise, because this isn't trolling or ranting, this is the search for perfection.

So I wander, like a burglar, through each thread, casing the joint, discovering the ins and outs of their arguments, peeling meaning from their intent, and their intent from their words the way you'd peel clothes from a lover. I'm poised to strike, starving for it.

The hunger's real, the pressure for that discourse, discourse as treatment, as salvation, as competition. I'll lay down words, letter by letter, phrase by phrase, looking to tear right to the heart of things, to lay their secret meanings out to the crowd, to explain just what's been argued, and why they agreed. Where the bias is, that I see. Where the lies hide, the hypocrisy, the just understated rhythms of the words.

Because me, I'm a dive bomber, a hawk, a dragon, starving for that perfect statement, that bit of connection where I put the innards of what they've said, lain bare, right back on the table, and I tell them that they're wrong. They're wrong, and they couldn't even tell, because they're sitting in a universe of conformation bias and bile.

The hunger's there, the pressure's building. Someone, somewhere, is wrong on the internet. I just haven't decided who, yet.