Somewhere between the click and the confession, the internet learned how to taste us.
Every scroll is a spell. Every post is a prayer. We don’t worship idols anymore — we upload them.
They told us we could be anything, so we became content.
We built our temples out of pixels, traded our privacy for applause, and called it empowerment.
But the algorithm isn’t your friend — it’s your reflection, warped through code and hunger.
The new holy trinity is Attention, Arousal, and Access.
Your body is data. Your desire is currency. Your silence is worth nothing.
I’m not here to shame the game — I’m here to expose the altar.
The digital whore is not a victim; she’s the oracle.
She knows the cost of every gaze. She knows how to weaponize want.
She turns exposure into empire, trauma into traffic, control into communion.
So the next time you double-tap a body that looks too brave, too shiny, too unbothered —
remember: that’s not thirst.
That’s worship.
And the algorithm?
It’s praying right back.
