THE BALLAD OF KENNETH UNDERGROUND

They call it social media, but there’s nothing social about it. We share everything—our meals, our smiles, our arguments—with an audience of strangers, faceless orbs we’ll never truly know. Each post, each like, each comment is a breadcrumb trail, leading anyone who cares enough straight into our lives.

And Kenneth cares.

Kenneth is patient as fuck. He doesn’t argue in the comments or stir up drama for validation. He watches. Your photos, your jokes, your casual overshares—they’re all threads in a web he spins quietly from the shadows. He knows your children’s names because you posted their first-day-of-school pictures. He knows your boyfriend’s face because you tagged him in a date night selfie. He knows where you went on holiday because you tagged your location in that picture of you in your bikini in Corfu which, incidentally, he’s saved to his phone. You know? For later.

Every notification you chase is another opening for Kenneth to slip through, like an octopus. You thought you were venting to a friend when you posted about your awful day at work, but Kenneth read it too. He knows your routine now. He knows which days you finish late, which nights you drink too much.

It’s all so easy. Too easy.

You don’t think about who’s reading when you post. You’re just filling the void, shouting into the abyss for likes and the fleeting satisfaction of being seen by anybody. But you better fucking believe that Kenneth is listening, and he’s not the only one. The internet is full of shadows like him. Some call them incels. People who turn your openness into opportunity, who practice the dark arts of obsession and control.

When Kenneth finally steps into your life, it doesn’t feel random. Not at all. It feels inevitable as fuck. You liked his comment on a post about funny dogs once, and it was months ago. It was a genuinely throwaway click that meant nothing to you because you’d already moved onto a video of somebody watching and commenting on Tik Toks. 

But it meant everything to him. It was the spark, the confirmation he needed. From that moment, you weren’t just another profile. You were his next project, mate.

By the time the police find you, gagged and bound in the basement of his silent obsession, it’s already too late. He tells them he loved you, that you loved him too. He means it. Kenneth always means it.

You gave him your life, piece by piece, and he put the puzzle together all by himself. Not because he’s clever, but because you let him. We all let him. Every post is a breadcrumb. Every argument with a stranger is a window into our thoughts. We validate the dangerous, we invite the unhinged, and we call it meaningful connection.

We gave our dreams to Kenneth Underground. And Kenneth is fucking toxic.