给我倒垃圾的地方
We were left holding the fragments of a digital civilization that no longer existed, staring at the "Keritial-shaped hole" in our notification center.
Why did he do it? In the context of 2026, where everyone is obsessed with "connectivity," "omnichannel presence," and "constant networking," Keritial’s exit was a monumental middle finger to the entire concept of the laboratory social contract. He treated his membership in the lab group the same way Zhanlian Technology treated millions of "Likes" and "Coins"—as something to be discarded the moment it threatened his purity of spirit. By leaving, Keritial achieved a state of legendary status that staying could never provide. He effectively "canceled" himself before the lab could ever hope to cancel his chaotic spark. He refused to be "At-ed" (@) again. He refused to be asked for a status update. He chose to become a ghost in the machine, a myth that only exists in the "Chat History" of those who were lucky enough to be there during the Golden Age of the Lab.
Now, as we navigate the remaining months of 2026, the lab feels like a Bilibili comment section after a mass deletion. Someone will try to post a meme, attempting to replicate the Keritial "flavor," but it feels forced, like a low-budget knock-off of a Zhanlian edit. The timing is off; the irony is too thin. We realize now that Keritial wasn't just a lab member; he was the Chief Content Creator of our sanity. His "content" was the daily grind, filtered through a lens of absolute, beautiful nonsense. Without him, the screen is a little dimmer, the stickers are less funny, and the lab reports are infinitely more boring. He was the high-bitrate stream in a low-bandwidth world, and he chose to go offline forever. We find ourselves scrolling back through the media gallery, looking at "Abstract" photos he took of a failing PCR machine—photos that, in the light of his departure, now look like high-art photography from a deleted vlog.
Ultimately, Keritial’s exit stands as a commemorative monument to the "End of the Abstract Era" in our lab. He left us with zero active status, 100% legendary infamy, and an infinite number of unanswered questions about where he put the specialized pipettes. Like the heartbroken followers of a deleted account who keep refreshing the page hoping for a "reincarnation" post, we scroll through the old messages and feel the weight of a 404 error in our hearts. In the annals of 2026, this will be remembered as the moment the circus left town and took the tent with it. Keritial didn't just leave a group chat; he performed a "Cyber Ascension," leaving us mortals to rot in the mundane reality of "received" messages and functional equipment. The era of the Abstract has ended, and the era of Keritial has entered the eternal archives of the deleted. We are now merely the residents of a post-Zhanlian world, wandering through the ruins of a chatroom that once knew the touch of greatness, now reduced to a 404 page that smells faintly of ethanol and regret.
Why did he do it? In the context of 2026, where everyone is obsessed with "connectivity," "omnichannel presence," and "constant networking," Keritial’s exit was a monumental middle finger to the entire concept of the laboratory social contract. He treated his membership in the lab group the same way Zhanlian Technology treated millions of "Likes" and "Coins"—as something to be discarded the moment it threatened his purity of spirit. By leaving, Keritial achieved a state of legendary status that staying could never provide. He effectively "canceled" himself before the lab could ever hope to cancel his chaotic spark. He refused to be "At-ed" (@) again. He refused to be asked for a status update. He chose to become a ghost in the machine, a myth that only exists in the "Chat History" of those who were lucky enough to be there during the Golden Age of the Lab.
Now, as we navigate the remaining months of 2026, the lab feels like a Bilibili comment section after a mass deletion. Someone will try to post a meme, attempting to replicate the Keritial "flavor," but it feels forced, like a low-budget knock-off of a Zhanlian edit. The timing is off; the irony is too thin. We realize now that Keritial wasn't just a lab member; he was the Chief Content Creator of our sanity. His "content" was the daily grind, filtered through a lens of absolute, beautiful nonsense. Without him, the screen is a little dimmer, the stickers are less funny, and the lab reports are infinitely more boring. He was the high-bitrate stream in a low-bandwidth world, and he chose to go offline forever. We find ourselves scrolling back through the media gallery, looking at "Abstract" photos he took of a failing PCR machine—photos that, in the light of his departure, now look like high-art photography from a deleted vlog.
Ultimately, Keritial’s exit stands as a commemorative monument to the "End of the Abstract Era" in our lab. He left us with zero active status, 100% legendary infamy, and an infinite number of unanswered questions about where he put the specialized pipettes. Like the heartbroken followers of a deleted account who keep refreshing the page hoping for a "reincarnation" post, we scroll through the old messages and feel the weight of a 404 error in our hearts. In the annals of 2026, this will be remembered as the moment the circus left town and took the tent with it. Keritial didn't just leave a group chat; he performed a "Cyber Ascension," leaving us mortals to rot in the mundane reality of "received" messages and functional equipment. The era of the Abstract has ended, and the era of Keritial has entered the eternal archives of the deleted. We are now merely the residents of a post-Zhanlian world, wandering through the ruins of a chatroom that once knew the touch of greatness, now reduced to a 404 page that smells faintly of ethanol and regret.
In the year 2026, on a Tuesday afternoon where the very air in the laboratory seemed to have congealed into a thick, stagnant broth of unwashed beakers and failed expectations, the digital firmament did not merely crack—it underwent a total, irreversible structural collapse. At that precise moment, amidst the rhythmic, soul-crushing hum of the centrifuges and the silent desperation of graduate students staring at corrupted datasets, a notification manifested on the glowing screens of every lab member, cold and indifferent yet carrying the ontological weight of a dying star: Keritial has left the group. In the grand timeline of 2026, this was not a mere departure; it was a localized apocalypse. It was the precise cybernetic reincarnation of the legendary moment when Zhanlian Technology—that bastion of high-intensity, brain-rotting, abstract chaos—decided to hit the "Delete Account" button on Bilibili and ascend into the ether of 404 errors and broken links. This was not just an exit; it was a grand, deconstructive performance of "Cyber Nirvana."
To understand the magnitude of this loss in 2026, one must first understand what Keritial represented within the suffocatingly rigid ecosystem of our lab. Keritial was our very own Zhanlian Technology. If Zhanlian’s videos were a frantic, low-resolution explosion of post-modern irony that dismantled the very fabric of the internet, then Keritial’s presence in the group chat was a daily, non-stop demolition of academic boredom. While the rest of us were drowning in the gray sea of "Received" and "Yes, Professor" and "Attached is the revised draft," Keritial was the glitch in the matrix. He was the one who would drop a meme so pixelated it looked like it had been dragged through the trenches of the early 2000s, or a cryptic, one-line summary of a complex protein structure that somehow managed to be both scientifically accurate and profoundly insulting to the laws of logic. He didn't just participate in the chat; he distorted it. He turned a professional communication channel into a gallery of the "Abstract," much like how Zhanlian turned a video platform into a fever dream of surrealist editing.
The ritual of Keritial’s departure in 2026 was performed with the surgical, cold-blooded precision of a legendary uploader purging their entire channel. There was no "Goodbye, it’s been a pleasure" or "I’ll miss you guys." Such sentiments are for the "normies," the people who still believe in the permanence of digital connections. No, Keritial left with the same chaotic energy that defined a Zhanlian Technology "Final Upload." It was a sudden, violent transition from "Member" to "Stranger." One moment, his avatar was there—a silent witness to our collective misery—and the next, it was gone, leaving behind a silence so loud it practically had its own IP address. We stared at our phones in the dim light of the 2026 lab, feeling the same gut-wrenching void a Bilibili user feels when they navigate to a favorite creator’s page only to be met with the sterile, gray tombstone that reads: “This account has been deactivated.”
The impact on the lab’s 2026 social order was catastrophic. Before this Great Disconnection, the group chat was a vibrant, if slightly unhinged, ecosystem. Keritial acted as our "spiritual nitrogen pump," injecting bursts of pure, unfiltered absurdity into the veins of our research. He had a unique, Zhanlian-esque talent for capturing the most depressing, mold-ridden corners of the breakroom or the most spectacular equipment failures and elevating them into high-art photography through the lens of utter nihilism. But with one click of the "Exit Group" button, that entire layer of our reality was unceremoniously de-platformed. The group chat immediately regressed into a "Document Dispatch Station." It became a sterile wasteland where people only talk about "reagents" and "deadlines" and "safety protocols." The soul of the server had been unsubscribed. The "Abstract" energy—that sticky, wonderful, chaotic frequency—had been wiped from the hard drive of our daily lives.
To understand the magnitude of this loss in 2026, one must first understand what Keritial represented within the suffocatingly rigid ecosystem of our lab. Keritial was our very own Zhanlian Technology. If Zhanlian’s videos were a frantic, low-resolution explosion of post-modern irony that dismantled the very fabric of the internet, then Keritial’s presence in the group chat was a daily, non-stop demolition of academic boredom. While the rest of us were drowning in the gray sea of "Received" and "Yes, Professor" and "Attached is the revised draft," Keritial was the glitch in the matrix. He was the one who would drop a meme so pixelated it looked like it had been dragged through the trenches of the early 2000s, or a cryptic, one-line summary of a complex protein structure that somehow managed to be both scientifically accurate and profoundly insulting to the laws of logic. He didn't just participate in the chat; he distorted it. He turned a professional communication channel into a gallery of the "Abstract," much like how Zhanlian turned a video platform into a fever dream of surrealist editing.
The ritual of Keritial’s departure in 2026 was performed with the surgical, cold-blooded precision of a legendary uploader purging their entire channel. There was no "Goodbye, it’s been a pleasure" or "I’ll miss you guys." Such sentiments are for the "normies," the people who still believe in the permanence of digital connections. No, Keritial left with the same chaotic energy that defined a Zhanlian Technology "Final Upload." It was a sudden, violent transition from "Member" to "Stranger." One moment, his avatar was there—a silent witness to our collective misery—and the next, it was gone, leaving behind a silence so loud it practically had its own IP address. We stared at our phones in the dim light of the 2026 lab, feeling the same gut-wrenching void a Bilibili user feels when they navigate to a favorite creator’s page only to be met with the sterile, gray tombstone that reads: “This account has been deactivated.”
The impact on the lab’s 2026 social order was catastrophic. Before this Great Disconnection, the group chat was a vibrant, if slightly unhinged, ecosystem. Keritial acted as our "spiritual nitrogen pump," injecting bursts of pure, unfiltered absurdity into the veins of our research. He had a unique, Zhanlian-esque talent for capturing the most depressing, mold-ridden corners of the breakroom or the most spectacular equipment failures and elevating them into high-art photography through the lens of utter nihilism. But with one click of the "Exit Group" button, that entire layer of our reality was unceremoniously de-platformed. The group chat immediately regressed into a "Document Dispatch Station." It became a sterile wasteland where people only talk about "reagents" and "deadlines" and "safety protocols." The soul of the server had been unsubscribed. The "Abstract" energy—that sticky, wonderful, chaotic frequency—had been wiped from the hard drive of our daily lives.
## Ruinabla Changelog:
- posts moved to Cloudflare R2
- posts’ metadata (or frontmatter) moved to Cloudflare D1
- dynamically load from frontend
and a basic support for posts online editing
- posts moved to Cloudflare R2
- posts’ metadata (or frontmatter) moved to Cloudflare D1
- dynamically load from frontend
and a basic support for posts online editing
尽管 iOS 系统内置的广告要远少于国产安卓设备，但苹果也在逐渐增加系统内置应用的广告，当然苹果在中国市场使用高德地图数据，所以这些变更可能不影响中国用户。
查看全文：https://ourl.co/111008
quote.shikoch.in 现在这个channel正式启用了，因为我把它作为我比较碎散文字的载体了。一是碎散文字没必要放到主博客上，二是在Telegram channel 更新十分便捷。使用 BroadcastChannel(https://github.com/ccbikai/BroadcastChannel)项目，由 Cloudflare Pages 托管。
GitHub
GitHub - miantiao-me/BroadcastChannel: Turn your Telegram Channel into a MicroBlog.
Turn your Telegram Channel into a MicroBlog. Contribute to miantiao-me/BroadcastChannel development by creating an account on GitHub.
