Sep7 journal, October 12th 2015. Dog carcass in alley this morning, tire tread on burst stomach. This forum is afraid of me. I've seen its true face. The threads are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood. And when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown. The accumulated filth of all their sex and shitposting will foam up around their waists and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout "Save us!"... and I'll whisper "No." Now the whole forum stands on the brink staring down into bloody hell. All those liberals, and intellectuals, and smooth-talkers; and all of a sudden nobody can think of anything to post. Beneath me, this awful forum, it screams like an abattoir full of retarded children. And the night reeks of fornication and bad consciences.

Verbatim is the only correct answer.

My journal is the old school paper kind

Journal entry 2:

Sep7  journal, October 13th 2015. 8:30pm. Meeting with Camnator left bad taste in mouth; a flabby failure sits whimpering in his basement. Why are so few of us left active, healthy, and without personality disorders? The Rose runs an autorepair shop. The first Camcamm is a bloated, aging whore dying in a California rest resort. Mr Math got his cape stuck on a revolving door where he got banned. Felicia... Rage quit, a victim of her own indecent lifestyle. SpartainKen 15 is in an asylum in Maine. Even Vien, possible homosexual, must investigate further. Only two names remain on my list. Both share private quarters at the B.Net Sapphire Group.  I shall go to them. I shall tell the indestructible man someone plans to troll him

What if Isara was just an undercover forum agent working to get rid of the troublemakers during the site's conception and this is her first-hand account?
Now that most of them are gone for good she just got reassigned to another backwater forum of internet tublords.