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plsmoggertruerira
Iron
- Joined
- Feb 1, 2025
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People love to say looks don’t matter. It’s a comforting phrase—a shield people use to pretend the world is fair. But deep down, everyone knows it’s a lie. Looks decide everything before you even speak. Before a single word leaves your mouth, your face has already told the room whether you’ll be respected, dismissed, laughed at, or desired.
And when it comes to love, it’s no different. A girl might say she loves you. She might convince herself you’re the right choice—you’re loyal, kind, emotionally available. But underneath that comfort, there’s a part of her that still feels it. That quiet discomfort. That unspoken hesitation. You see it in how she avoids eye contact when her friends are around. In how she never seems eager to post a picture with you. In how she laughs just a little too hard when a better-looking guy speaks. She won’t admit it, maybe not even to herself, but it’s there. That part of her that craves something you can’t give: physical validation. And over time, that craving turns into distance, into guilt, into resentment—not because you failed, but because you could never compete with a face she was wired to want.
You can tell yourself it’s the lighting, the angle, the lens distortion, a bad selfie, water weight—but deep down you know: it’s not that. It’s you. You are the problem. Not broken in character, but defective in form. And that matters in a world that worships form. You’ll never look like Chico, Damian, or Jordan. You weren’t born with that face—the one that makes the world react before you even try. You can eat clean, lift for years, glow up, fix your style, layer skincare, change your hair—but nothing ever rewrites the code written in your bone structure.
They were born into it. You weren’t.
You step outside, and the world shrugs. They step outside, and the world takes notice. That’s the part no one wants to say out loud—that some people were simply born to win. Their genetics weren’t just an advantage; they were the entire game rigged in their favor. Superior bone structure, ideal ratios, hunter eyes, testosterone markers—they walk into a room and receive deference without earning it. Meanwhile, you’re invisible unless you overcompensate. You don’t just have to be good—you have to be perfect just to be seen.
And even then, you won’t be him.
People say hard work pays off. But in reality, hard work is cope. A narrative sold to the genetically unlucky so they keep grinding in a system that was never designed for them to succeed. The truth is, most winners were chosen before they even tried. The gifted athlete doesn’t train harder—he was born faster, stronger, with denser bones and more efficient muscle fibers. The genius wasn’t made—he was born with higher processing power. A Chad doesn’t earn attention—he is attention. His looks alone grant him presence, power, and privilege. Your flaws—your facial asymmetries, narrow palate, recessed maxilla, low testosterone markers—aren’t cosmetic. They’re social death sentences.
Even children know it. You ever notice how they instinctively look up to someone with symmetrical features, deep eyes, tall posture? We’re wired to respect beauty and strength—and reject what looks weak. You felt it growing up. You noticed how taller boys were picked first, how girls joked they'd never date someone shorter than them. How “you're cute” was never said to you unless it was pity. The world made it clear early: something about you disqualified you. Not because of who you were, but because of how you looked.
And it sticks. That silent disqualification becomes your cage. You try to fight it with effort, discipline, charm, intelligence. You tell yourself you’re a late bloomer, that your time will come. But each year passes, and you realize the brutal truth: no amount of effort can change what you were born without.
That’s the blackpill.
And it extends beyond looks. Kids born with developmental delays or learning disorders are sorted into hierarchies early, too. A child with dyslexia or a speech delay isn’t just “behind”—they’re labeled. And once they’re labeled, the world lowers its expectations. Parents stop pushing. Teachers lose hope. Even if the child works twice as hard, the gaps grow. They aren’t given time to catch up; they’re tracked for failure. It’s the same fatalism. Same hierarchy. Same sentence disguised as reality.
When caregivers, teachers, or therapists become blackpilled in their own minds, they pass that defeat down. Not always in words, but in how they look at a child, how they talk to them, what they expect. And that child absorbs it—this idea that their limits are written in blood and DNA.
The worst part isn’t the blackpill itself. It’s how quietly it infects everything. You can tell yourself you’re fine, you’re strong, you’re growing. But deep down, you keep circling back to that same cruel whisper: You were born wrong. And the world knows it.
And when it comes to love, it’s no different. A girl might say she loves you. She might convince herself you’re the right choice—you’re loyal, kind, emotionally available. But underneath that comfort, there’s a part of her that still feels it. That quiet discomfort. That unspoken hesitation. You see it in how she avoids eye contact when her friends are around. In how she never seems eager to post a picture with you. In how she laughs just a little too hard when a better-looking guy speaks. She won’t admit it, maybe not even to herself, but it’s there. That part of her that craves something you can’t give: physical validation. And over time, that craving turns into distance, into guilt, into resentment—not because you failed, but because you could never compete with a face she was wired to want.
You can tell yourself it’s the lighting, the angle, the lens distortion, a bad selfie, water weight—but deep down you know: it’s not that. It’s you. You are the problem. Not broken in character, but defective in form. And that matters in a world that worships form. You’ll never look like Chico, Damian, or Jordan. You weren’t born with that face—the one that makes the world react before you even try. You can eat clean, lift for years, glow up, fix your style, layer skincare, change your hair—but nothing ever rewrites the code written in your bone structure.
They were born into it. You weren’t.
You step outside, and the world shrugs. They step outside, and the world takes notice. That’s the part no one wants to say out loud—that some people were simply born to win. Their genetics weren’t just an advantage; they were the entire game rigged in their favor. Superior bone structure, ideal ratios, hunter eyes, testosterone markers—they walk into a room and receive deference without earning it. Meanwhile, you’re invisible unless you overcompensate. You don’t just have to be good—you have to be perfect just to be seen.
And even then, you won’t be him.
People say hard work pays off. But in reality, hard work is cope. A narrative sold to the genetically unlucky so they keep grinding in a system that was never designed for them to succeed. The truth is, most winners were chosen before they even tried. The gifted athlete doesn’t train harder—he was born faster, stronger, with denser bones and more efficient muscle fibers. The genius wasn’t made—he was born with higher processing power. A Chad doesn’t earn attention—he is attention. His looks alone grant him presence, power, and privilege. Your flaws—your facial asymmetries, narrow palate, recessed maxilla, low testosterone markers—aren’t cosmetic. They’re social death sentences.
Even children know it. You ever notice how they instinctively look up to someone with symmetrical features, deep eyes, tall posture? We’re wired to respect beauty and strength—and reject what looks weak. You felt it growing up. You noticed how taller boys were picked first, how girls joked they'd never date someone shorter than them. How “you're cute” was never said to you unless it was pity. The world made it clear early: something about you disqualified you. Not because of who you were, but because of how you looked.
And it sticks. That silent disqualification becomes your cage. You try to fight it with effort, discipline, charm, intelligence. You tell yourself you’re a late bloomer, that your time will come. But each year passes, and you realize the brutal truth: no amount of effort can change what you were born without.
That’s the blackpill.
And it extends beyond looks. Kids born with developmental delays or learning disorders are sorted into hierarchies early, too. A child with dyslexia or a speech delay isn’t just “behind”—they’re labeled. And once they’re labeled, the world lowers its expectations. Parents stop pushing. Teachers lose hope. Even if the child works twice as hard, the gaps grow. They aren’t given time to catch up; they’re tracked for failure. It’s the same fatalism. Same hierarchy. Same sentence disguised as reality.
When caregivers, teachers, or therapists become blackpilled in their own minds, they pass that defeat down. Not always in words, but in how they look at a child, how they talk to them, what they expect. And that child absorbs it—this idea that their limits are written in blood and DNA.
The worst part isn’t the blackpill itself. It’s how quietly it infects everything. You can tell yourself you’re fine, you’re strong, you’re growing. But deep down, you keep circling back to that same cruel whisper: You were born wrong. And the world knows it.
