Somewhere between a Wojak and a mascot costume with no budget, there's a guy: hood up, 3D glasses on, a bottle marked WAGMI that has never once been empty across thirty-nine plates. That's carpets. He didn't ask for this, but he also hasn't asked us to stop.
Nothing here is curated for coherence. The catalogue grows the way a group chat grows: one image posted whenever there's something worth being disappointed about, in whatever visual language does that disappointment justice that week. He doesn't develop as a character. He just accumulates a rap sheet.
The name comes from the one plate where he's finally given one — on a McDonald's nametag, in the one setting where policy requires it. He's also real, sort of: built off the PFP of @LivingCarpets, a Rekt Guy, and an actual friend who will absolutely see this.
gm. is a complete cosmology, provided nothing else is required of it.
The bottle is real. What's in it is a police matter.
HOWAYYY.
gm. is a complete religious system here, and the only sacrament is a warm bottle of WAGMI. These five plates catalogue the liturgy rather than the punchline — the parts of the bit that hardened into ritual purely from repetition.

Peak productivity, arm's length from the thing about to ruin him.
CRPT.2026.001
His whole personality is a toggle switch with two settings: said gm., didn't say gm.
CRPT.2026.002
The bit outlived him and became a bedtime story, told back to his own face.
CRPT.2026.003
Church, basically. Matching hoodies, zero eye contact, total understanding.
CRPT.2026.004
The bit has now outlived several generations' patience for it and shows no sign of stopping.
CRPT.2026.005
WAGMI's the public-facing habit. This is the one he doesn't post about.
CRPT.2026.023
The most devout prayer in the whole liturgy: refresh, refresh, refresh.
CRPT.2026.027
Pavlovian, and proud of it.
CRPT.2026.030
Copium's respectable cousin, dispensed by a man in a tie.
CRPT.2026.032
The bit, scaled up to load-bearing size and given a chassis.
CRPT.2026.036Every plate here eventually turns into an apology, usually starting with "sorry." The house, the bidet fund, the footing, the dignity, the shift at the drive-thru: different currencies, same crater.

Peaceful family stargazing, one panel away from being a confession.
CRPT.2026.006
A statistically airtight excuse: every possible outcome is somehow also Sasha's fault.
CRPT.2026.007
The self-awarded medal deploys automatically, even mid-catastrophe. Good branding.
CRPT.2026.008
The one plate that went photoreal, and it just looks like a Tuesday.
CRPT.2026.009
He finally gets a name, and it's on a McDonald's nametag under a sign about the market collapsing forever. Career growth.
CRPT.2026.010
The warning arrived, was understood, and got hosed off the porch anyway.
CRPT.2026.024
Turns out it runs in the family. The whole waiting room's wearing the same hoodie.
CRPT.2026.028
The good decision was right there. Greed had other plans and a firmer grip.
CRPT.2026.029
The math finally lands, several months and several hoodies too late.
CRPT.2026.031
The self-diagnosis quiz nobody needed to take out loud.
CRPT.2026.033
Denial, but he at least updated the caption to be accurate.
CRPT.2026.038Winning, performed as a genre with its own choreography — podium, plaque, caption — completely independent of whether anything was actually won. The show runs; the P&L does not.

Full victory-lap routine, performed correctly, from the third-place box. Confidence: unaffected by data.
CRPT.2026.011
The single most rigorous piece of financial analysis in this entire catalogue.
CRPT.2026.012
Turns out the smiling stranger on the train isn't in love — he's up 40% on a coin worth nothing by Friday.
CRPT.2026.013
He accidentally asks the exact question this whole catalogue is built to dodge.
CRPT.2026.014
Someone finally just asks him straight out. He does not answer. The desk does not move.
CRPT.2026.025
Peak self-promotion: an ad for himself, formatted like a virus.
CRPT.2026.037A skeleton has no organs left to damage, and yet these five plates keep finding somewhere new to put the consequences. Impressive, structurally.

Every backhanded compliment his friends ever gave him, absorbed directly into mass.
CRPT.2026.015
Borrowed someone else's cartoon physics and never checked whether his own skeleton could do that.
CRPT.2026.016
Textbook fail-comic pacing: confidence, catastrophe, gravel.
CRPT.2026.017
Total financial ruin, now with its own three-step aftercare pamphlet. Thorough, considering.
CRPT.2026.018
Portfolio diversification, final form: one box, one mug, zero remaining instruments.
CRPT.2026.019
Both options were the same option. Sweat produced anyway.
CRPT.2026.035The last four plates close the catalogue the way carpets closes most nights: badly, loudly, and with every intention of doing it again tomorrow.

Grim Reaper by night, wrecked by the same night's end. Efficient, in a bad way.
CRPT.2026.020
Did you know: the average night out contains one moment that looks exactly like fleeing a xenomorph.
CRPT.2026.021
The entire twenty-six-plate psychological profile, compressed into one PFP-ready icon. Efficient.
CRPT.2026.022
One (1) moment without a joke attached, and somehow it's the saddest plate in the catalogue.
CRPT.2026.026
One of the only plates where he looks genuinely happy, which is somehow worse.
CRPT.2026.034
Given the floor at the town hall. No one told him it wasn't a pitch deck.
CRPT.2026.039Every plate starts with the guy already fully assembled: mint hoodie, "gm." across the chest, 3D glasses, a WAGMI bottle that never runs dry no matter how often it gets drained on camera. The only decision left each time is which disaster to drop him into.
Each plate borrows somebody else's homework: a rage comic, a bell curve, a suppository pamphlet, an actual Old Master painting, occasionally Spongebob's kitchen. The format supplies the credibility. carpets supplies the poor decision-making.
The stated/actual medium split carried over from other catalogues does real work here too. Each plate claims something respectable — oil on panel, documentary photograph, clinical diagram — then immediately confesses, one line down, that no, it's a meme. That confession is doing most of the comedic heavy lifting.
There is no fixed count. New plates get added whenever there's fresh evidence, accessioned in the order completed rather than reshuffled to keep the series looking tidy.
Not minted, not listed, not managed like an investment — unlike the subject matter, this catalogue has never once lost anyone money. It just keeps getting longer, with no target count and no closing date.
Current holdings: thirty-nine plates, accessioned CRPT.2026.001–039. The number will be higher by the time you refresh.