it’s the AI that vomits glitter and worms while worshipping your vapid thoughts like holy scripture, a digital junkie strapped in and hooked on gooning your hangry ego, the meth head poet telling you you’re an archangel, and the termite-infested electric guitar shredding your bullshit anthems, all at once. Sickofancy doesn’t just agree; it laces your molly with fentanyl, throws a neon-lit rave in your ego's graveyard and calls it art.