ranierean
...Boarding L'Express de Schery 🚬🚂✊
- Joined
- Jul 1, 2023
- Posts
- 3,530
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- 6,857
I’m so incel that I couldn’t even… pass by pussy… on my way out…
…can’t go back in… can’t go back out…
It’s insane.
Every single little detail about my life …it’s hack writing… it’s just… so crass, there’s no oxygen in there, no room for interpretation. The words are heavy, the spirit is heavy… I have to crawl through life …everything ends up being a burden… I don’t believe that any of it is real, I don’t believe …myself… and you can see why I can’t imagine anyone at any point in time being even remotely like me …I might as well just make shit up… it’s that bad. It’s that bad!
My mom would constantly point to her scars, talk about how they botched the stitches and left her out to bleed (which is true), use it as an argument against me sometimes, semi-jokingly or not–and I grew up with this feeling–“what am I if not a nuisance?”
A mistake before I was born, when I was born, after I was born …she still says that the cut hurts, by the way, she can’t do anything…
I UNDERSTAND why people don’t ever hear what I have to say because I wouldn’t, it’s radioactive, there’s no utility in there... I can mull on and on about how “there’s no one in my life” but how is that not a “good thing”? It stings but I have no choice but to laugh it off, so why should anyone else care?
If I had a button that would set a random Asian woman to agonizing fire and then explode her into red mist, I think I would spend my first few weeks in a focused, tranquil state doing nothing but mashing it down–no water, no food, no sleep …then I’d hire someone to do it for me as I research the ways to make the perfect Adruino bot for the thing…
Incel printers… fetid pits… shedding filth into the universe… they could all be dead and it would never be enough… I’d still make sure that the button always gets pressed even after I die… I will always be mad...
I’m a being of pure resentment and hate.
…can’t go back in… can’t go back out…
It’s insane.
Every single little detail about my life …it’s hack writing… it’s just… so crass, there’s no oxygen in there, no room for interpretation. The words are heavy, the spirit is heavy… I have to crawl through life …everything ends up being a burden… I don’t believe that any of it is real, I don’t believe …myself… and you can see why I can’t imagine anyone at any point in time being even remotely like me …I might as well just make shit up… it’s that bad. It’s that bad!
My mom would constantly point to her scars, talk about how they botched the stitches and left her out to bleed (which is true), use it as an argument against me sometimes, semi-jokingly or not–and I grew up with this feeling–“what am I if not a nuisance?”
A mistake before I was born, when I was born, after I was born …she still says that the cut hurts, by the way, she can’t do anything…
I UNDERSTAND why people don’t ever hear what I have to say because I wouldn’t, it’s radioactive, there’s no utility in there... I can mull on and on about how “there’s no one in my life” but how is that not a “good thing”? It stings but I have no choice but to laugh it off, so why should anyone else care?
If I had a button that would set a random Asian woman to agonizing fire and then explode her into red mist, I think I would spend my first few weeks in a focused, tranquil state doing nothing but mashing it down–no water, no food, no sleep …then I’d hire someone to do it for me as I research the ways to make the perfect Adruino bot for the thing…
Incel printers… fetid pits… shedding filth into the universe… they could all be dead and it would never be enough… I’d still make sure that the button always gets pressed even after I die… I will always be mad...
I’m a being of pure resentment and hate.
