I had friends out there who lost everything—houses, cars, photos, their whole lives turned into smoke. They text me, asking where they’re supposed to go now. I don’t know what to tell them. I’m here, sitting in my quiet house, far away from the flames. It feels wrong to still have walls, a roof, power, running water. Like I cheated somehow.

We didn’t have much growing up, but we had enough. A Sega Genesis hooked up to a tiny TV in the living room. *Streets of Rage* and *Mortal Kombat* after school, back when life was simple and losing a game was the biggest disaster you could imagine. I loved that console. It made me feel invincible. Now, all I feel is tired.

I played football in high school—wide receiver. I wasn’t the best, but I had my moments. I remember one game against Agoura High, fourth quarter, I made a diving catch to keep us alive. We still lost. That’s what stays with me, even now: the losing. You think you’re on top of the world, and then it all goes up in flames.

The fires didn’t just take houses—they took what Calabasas used to be. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours. Now it’s just smoke, ruin, and a bunch of rich people fighting over what little they can salvage. Part of me wants to say this is what we deserve. I’m an accelerationist at heart. I voted for Trump because I wanted to see the Democrats burn, and now I watch the whole system eat itself alive with the same detached fascination. Red, blue, it doesn’t matter—they’re all just rearranging deck chairs on a sinking ship.

My wife says I’m bitter. Maybe she’s right. I tell her it’s not bitterness, it’s realism, but she just rolls her eyes and goes to bed early. She thinks I don’t care, but I do. I care about the people back home, even if I don’t know how to show it. I care about those hills, even if I’ll never see them the way they were again.

Calabasas is gone, and I’m here, watching from across the country, rambling to myself about Sega Genesis and football games no one remembers. What else is there to do? The smoke will clear, but nothing will be the same. Maybe that’s the point.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5668274&forum_id=2#48579709)

Where the trails were alive, and the hills were my home.

I ran through their valleys, I laughed in their air,

Now the hills of Calabasas are no longer there.

Poof went the rooftops, kaboom went the trees,

The fire gobbled all with the greatest of ease.

Front yards where we played, where the grass used to glow,

Are now just a memory beneath ash and woe.

Oh, I left long ago, with my life packed away,

To march and salute in a world far away.

But home’s still a home, even when you deny,

And now that it’s gone, I can’t help but ask why.

Friends text me their sorrows, their worlds turned to dust,

“Where do we go now? What’s left we can trust?”

And here I sit safely, a roof overhead,

But guilt in my heart feels like embers instead.

We didn’t have much, just a small TV screen,

With pixelated heroes, bold, brave, and lean.

Streets of Rage was our battle, Mortal Kombat our test,

We lost some, we won some, we gave it our best.

But the fires, oh the fires, they don’t play fair games,

They leave only ruin and whispers of names.

What once was a town, full of chatter and cheer,

Is now just a ghost, with nothing left here.

I remember the catch, oh, that glorious dive,

In a high school game where we barely stayed alive.

We still lost, of course, but isn’t that life?

You rise, and you fall, in joy and in strife.

The hills are all gone, the streets are no more,

It’s not like it was, not like before.

And though I’m far off, I still feel the sting,

Of a fire that took everything.

I’m bitter, she says, but I don’t think it’s true,

I care in my way, just not like you do.

I care for the ashes, the past that is burned,

For hills and for homes that will never return.

The smoke will clear, the winds will sing,

But Calabasas is gone—such a heartbreaking thing.

So here I will sit, and here I will sigh,

For the hills of my youth that have said goodbye.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5668274&forum_id=2#48579884)

You’re not wrong, brother. Most of the people who lost their homes are the same ones who spent their lives sucking the marrow out of the world while pretending they deserved it. They built their fortunes on the backs of others, tilted the scales until the game wasn’t worth playing anymore. The fire didn’t cleanse them, not really, but it came close. Too few houses burned, if we’re being honest. The truth is, Calabasas was never as golden as it looked. It wasn’t the hills or the houses that were rotten—it was the people who lived there, who carved their lives into the earth like they could own it. They dodged life’s hardest punches, but they threw plenty of their own, aimed at everyone who couldn’t fight back. Now their million-dollar homes are piles of ash, and I can’t bring myself to feel sorry for them. Not really. Do I condone what Luigi did? No. Would I laugh if it happened again? Without hesitation. The people you’re talking about—the ones who gutted this world while making sure they were insulated from its worst parts—they deserve every flame, every crack in the foundation, every ounce of ash choking the air. And yet, there are tragic cases in there too. A few. Not enough to change the balance, but enough to remind me that the fire wasn’t precise. That’s the thing about destruction—it doesn’t care who deserves it. It takes what it wants, leaves the rest to sift through the rubble.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5668274&forum_id=2#48579762)

My point stands

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5668274&forum_id=2#48579774)

You write like fag btw.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5668274&forum_id=2#48579813)