/vt/ - Virtual Youtubers

>Vtubers serve many of the purposes that deities did in ancient times. They aren't real, but they have an impact due to the influence of their followers. Their looks and personalities are handcrafted to attract and capture the attention of people(mostly men) who do not get to receive affection from any other figure in their lives. Their 'churches' grow rich and influential.
>You can see it everywhere you look, the art, the fanfics, the schizo posts. These masks have been turned into symbols, given meaning they were never meant to have.

>Vtubers serve many of the purposes that deities did in ancient times.
Agree, but with reservations which will soon appear.
>They aren't real, but they have an impact due to the influence of their followers.
Much like Deities they are real in a non literal sense. Watame isn't a real person but she is full of real output and shares many elements of her roommate -- but Watame, or rather her roomate, is, perhaps, 'gifted' energy by her followers to become Watame. This energy gives her confidence and real energy.
In much the same way you could say Caesar, Brutus, or Augustus were built by their followers and ideals. Brutus, the human, did not want to kill Caesar, but Brutus, the Senator, did, and had to. Caesar, likewise, deeply loved Pompey as the good husband to his deceased daughter -- nonetheless he marched in battle against Pompey.
But will you deny these men their sins? It is not so easy to divorce the person they felt they had to be, and made themselves, from the person relaxed from underneath the demands of their environment.

Likewise we must realize Watame, as a person, would not act how she does now, as a V-Tuber, if she were not a V-Tuber -- but nonetheless she, as a V-Tuber, is Watame in much the same way Caesar was Caesar, regardless of if he was speaking to friends or his supporters. The energy which gives form to both forms, not that they are confined to only two forms -- I say only two for simplicity's sake, cannot claim divorce from each of it's outcomes. The energy which makes Pekora's roommate is the same which makes Pekora, and both are impossible to replace -- both are the same thing too.

V-Tubing allows these people to reach their exaggerated and almost mythical forms. These forms are not fake, they are based on reality, but they are normally impossible for most people to realize in themselves -- we do not have hundreds of thousands of fans cheering on these forms.
>Their looks and personalities are handcrafted to attract and capture the attention of people
Chicken and egg. I think, through Occam's razor, you can acknowledge it's easier to find people naturally close to the personalities they play than to find people who can convincingly fake their personality for thousands of hours live. Going back to the previous statement of mine, that they are exaggerated and empowered forms of themselves, not fake representations, how many of us would act similar in such positions as them? Would you really not genuinely love your fans? Would you not act silly? If not, then at least can you acknowledge there are some amount of humanity which would, given such support?

What makes Hololive specifically unique is they have exceptional talent acquisition. They look for girls who do not have to fake it, but who naturally become it through the power of others.
>who do not get to receive affection from any other figure in their lives.
This is hard to disagree with as a general statement, but as a 'Semper Vera Omnium Est' it's easy to dismiss; why has story telling and literature existed in humanity's interests for so long? Because we seek others, and the truth of others. I know no one in my life who share personality and entertainment with some of the V-Tubers I know of, not that I do not love my friends!
I am sure if I did know such people my consumption would be less, but that reality is hard to achieve, and it's lack of realization is no proof of a general lack of affection.
>You can see it everywhere you look, the art, the fanfics, the schizo posts. These masks have been turned into symbols, given meaning they were never meant to have.
Their form is inherently a mask they wear, one they themselves design and fit perfectly into. The extreme nature of art, fanfiction, and schizophrenia is all perfectly natural for such displays using masks invigorated with such energy.

>>6559837
>irys beats gura at singing
>gurin beats gura at her own design
bros...

>better singer than ensinger
>just wants to chill and play games
why is life so unfair?

>>6387848
>>6387928
feelsbadman hope you're okay

how often do you win against watame in rock paper scissors? i have never won

What am I supposed to do now that Gura isn't the best singer in Hololive? I don't think I can be a chumbud anymore...

>>6305943

More frogs bro

Shark

>>6037047
Have you tried a new account?

Goodbye Kaichou...

>>5907501
This is now a holopepe thread

>tfw no /vst/ chuuba

>>5833489
O-Ok...Senpai...

>>5761044
Thanks, i actually was the one who made it. Here's another less quality one.

>>5758258
Nothing. The bubble is already being popped, this won't last long. Besides, there's just way too many accounts with membership for it to become valuable. Get a membership on someone like Risu, she has only 600 members in total, crazy shit.

Its the usual...

I get high off green tea/matcha and then write about v-tubers
i think being tea drunk leads to a certain openness necessary to understand the current zeitgeist of our age.

>>5699263
Literally all of them.

>>5682336

The car, carrying a young woman streamer and her friend, I struck head-on. The friend, an assistant for Pekora with a Japanese company, was killed instantly, propelled through her windshield like a mattress from the barrel of a circus cannon. She died on the bonnet of my car, her blood sprayed through the fractured windshield across my face and chest. The firemen who later cut me from the crushed cabin of my car assumed that I was bleeding to death from a massive open-heart wound.
My chest was severely bruised against the steering wheel, my knees crushed into the instrument panel as my body moved forwards into its own collision with the interior of the car, but my only serious injury was a severed nerve in my scalp.
The same mysterious forces that saved me from being impaled on the steering wheel also saved the young streamer.
Apart from a bruised upper jawbone and several loosened teeth, she was unharmed. During my first hours in Tokyo Hospital all I could see in my mind was the image of us locked together face to face in these two cars, the body of her dying friend lying between us on the bonnet of my car. We looked at each other through the fractured windshields, neither able to move. Her friend's hand, no more than a few inches from me, lay palm upwards beside the right windshield wiper. Her hand had struck some rigid object as she was hurled from her seat, and the pattern of a sign formed itself as I sat there, pumped up by her dying circulation into a huge blood-blister - the triton signature of my radiator emblem.
Supported by her diagonal seat belt, Pekora sat behind her steering wheel, staring at me in a curiously formal way, as if unsure what had brought us together. Her cute face, topped by a broad, intelligent forehead, had the blank and unresponsive look of a madonna in an early Renaissance icon, unwilling to accept the miracle, or nightmare, sprung from her loins. Only once did any emotion cross it, when she seemed to see me clearly for the first time, and a peculiar rictus twisted the right side of her face, as if the nerve had been pulled on a string. Did she realize then that the blood covering my face and chest was her friend's?

The young woman was carefully steered from her car by an olive-skinned man in the midnight-blue uniform of an Arab airline pilot. A thin stream of urine trickled involuntarily between her legs, running down on to the roadway. The pilot held her shoulders reassuringly. Standing beside their cars, the spectators watched this puddle forming on the oil-stained macadam. In the fading evening light, rainbows began to circle her weak ankles. She turned and stared down at me, a peculiar grimace with tears on her bruised face, a clear confusion of concern and hostility. However, all I could see was the unusual junction of her thighs, opened towards me in this deformed way. It was not the sexuality of the posture that stayed in my mind, but the stylization of the terrible events that had involved us, the extremes of pain and violence ritualized in this gesture of her legs, like the exaggerated pirouette of a mentally defective autistic girl I had once seen performing in a Christmas play at an institution.


The draped body of the dead friend was lifted from the bonnet of my car. Seated like a demented madonna between the doors of the second ambulance, her friend Pekora gazed vacantly at the evening traffic. The wound in her right cheek was slowly deforming her face as the bruised tissues gorged themselves on their own blood. Already I was aware that the interlocked radiator grilles of our cars formed the model of an inescapable and perverse union between us. I stared at the contours of her thighs. Across them the grey blanket formed a graceful dune. Somewhere beneath this mound lay the treasure of her pubis. Its precise jut and rake, the untouched sexuality of this intelligent woman, presided over the tragic events of the evening.

>>5653768
sadly