What moment pushed you to pursue surgeries?

[Deleted member 4671]

Damn that ascension story was lifefuel tbh

 

[Slayerino]

Yeah false rape a risk, I was thinking bad idea to be a dick too

6PSL guys don't have to worry about these things. The hoe will always think he's a dick. An adorable dick. And she'll want more.

A sub6, on the other hand, better not be so uppity, because the cunt will feel disrespected, not by the gesture, but by the PSLvalue of that person committing that gesture.

I actually considered not pulling out, and then, if she got pregnant, I'd have another maybe 4-6 weeks of being able to screw her before I'd have to dispose of the body.

So if she pulled something like a rape accusation, trying to prove it would be the least of her worries.

But you're right, it's a valid point. A girl does come to mind who did make that accusation (not against me), but I got her deported.



A silly exchange where some dullard said I was trying to be "dark triad" for having claimed I was a sociopath. He didn't believe me so I gave him an example. Oh well.

So, you're like a fucking Dexter, lol.

 

[WBC323]

Come on, are we really believing that

 

[nastynas]

threads like this is the reason i pay my internet for tbh. what was the age you had your big changes bro? sorry if i missed that part

 

[Gazzamogga]

Same with me, except my friend was the sub-human. He was blatantly treated like shit and told that he had a huge head and that he should kill himself, by a group of toilets (I thought girls were supposed to be the nice gender? I guess not). The worst thing about it was that they'd say shit like that to his face then directly go to flirting with me, lizard brained sluts.

Holy fuck I've been on both sides of this shit

I was an utter subhuman at 17/18. Shaved head, fat, pale, awful skin, dressed like a slob, etc etc. Whenever I was out with friends I'd get treated like shit by people but especially girls. I always realised that it was because I was ugly but still constantly let them convince me to come along with them. I also didn't know why I was ugly. Then one day we're going to the casino with a few guys and while picking up the last one he straight up laughs at me and points to my belly telling me how fat I got. Not in a mean-spirited way, that guy is a real bro.

So fast forward 4 years at 21-22. At this point I'd stopped going out with them to clubs/bars etc and would only hang out on weekends whenever we'd get drunk and play card games or FIFA or whatever at someone's place for the past 3 years. I'm in great shape, way better skin and skintone, fade, clothes that fit etc etc. Say 5psl. My friends constantly mention how good I look (in comparison to what I was before, obviously). Went on holiday with those same homies to some place you go to to get completely wasted for 8 days, decided to go with them as I feel a lot more confident in my own body at this point.

At this point I'm a 22 year old kissless virgin. But the way I got treated that holiday was fucking unreal for me. People were actually nice. Girls were actually looking at me without disgust in their faces. Bartenders would actually get to me within a reasonable time and not leave me standing for 10 minutes. Years of being subhuman and being treated accordingly have socially conditioned me to still be retarded with anyone I don't know well at this point.

Anyway enough rambling, one night we're playing some drinking games with my homies, a group of 4 girls and a group 4 other guys that we met at our apartment complex to get in the mood for the night of clubbing. Some tension between me and this 4psl slut but I'm too autistic at this point to get my dick wet. One of these guys has a little laser pen that he shines on this chicks ass and me and my friend grab it for the luls, she's giggling. Goes on for about 5 minutes of us just shamelessly groping this whore in public jfl. But the second this 5'4" Indonesian guy decides to join in the flips her shit and calls him a peanut creep. I couldn't believe my eyes.

 

[Deleted member 5799]

Absolutely. Well said.




PT-141 was derived from melanotan-II.
You inject it. Men can use it just fine, and I prefer it to MT-II.
It's all the sex drive/erection benefits of MT-II without the moles/pigmentation.

Yes, I clamped. Gives erection quality benefits for a few days afterward, for me at least.



All the stories are true. All events and even dialogue occurred exactly as described.
I admittedly have a flair for the dramatic, but only in so far as presentation style.
That's for the reader's sake so it's not the reading equivalent of trying to eat a cinderblock.
What would you want, if not details?
A story that reads like:

"Yeah this one bitch, she unmatched me on Bumble once. But then I found her again, fucked her good, and kicked her out. Haha!"

Anyway, you clearly don't have much experience if you're in disbelief over such banalities.
Because trust me, I have much wilder stories than someone telling a bartender to fuck them on a napkin.
And on the flipside, I also have a lot of dates and hookup stories that aren't even worth sharing.
For every 5 or 10 there's maybe 1 good one, so I'm not sure what you're so incredulous about.

I cannot share photos of myself.
Since it seems you're really desperate to know why, I'll tell you:
I've murdered people and admitted to it on this site.
I've not been caught and would prefer it stay that way.

If you feel so passionate about this though, I would be happy to meet you anonymously in person.

33 year old, lay count over 45. Clearly not much experience because you, oh gran master, are probably over the hundred.

Im not desperate to know and i couldnt care less.

I can say i've killed 100 people, post my photo, that doesnt make it real. You only kill people in fortnite.

Go talk shit somewhere else.

I would be happy to meet you anonymously in person.

Hahah triggered... 17 years old confirmed.

 

[WBC323]

33 year old, lay count over 45. Clearly not much experience because you, oh gran master, are probably over the hundred.

Im not desperate to know and i couldnt care less.

I can say i've killed 100 people, post my photo, that doesnt make it real.

Go talk shit somewhere else.



Hahah triggered... 17 years old confirmed.

He also always uses similar plot elements, the waiter, big titted blondes. Also too much foreshadowing and reversing the life's unjustments. I mean, if his stories were true, i would definetely looksmax, but lol, come on. But it would be nice if life was really that way, nice fantasy, should write books for incels

 

[Slayerino]

But the second this 5'4" Indonesian guy decides to join in the flips her shit and calls him a peanut creep. I couldn't believe my eyes.

JFL at that manlet deathnik. He was ready to go home and masturbate furiously with the hand that touched her.

 

[Gazzamogga]

JFL at that manlet deathnik. He was ready to go home and masturbate furiously with the hand that touched her.

One of the most brutal things I've witnessed, my heart goes out to that guy

 

[Fear]

6PSL guys don't have to worry about these things. The hoe will always think he's a dick. An adorable dick. And she'll want more.

A sub6, on the other hand, better not be so uppity, because the cunt will feel disrespected, not by the gesture, but by the PSLvalue of that person committing that gesture.


So, you're like a fucking Dexter, lol.

Absolutely spot-on. It's the same as getting hit on.
Hit on by a GL = flattered, flirts back; hit on a subhuman = get away from me you creep.
It's because they think the person committing the gesture must consider them a looksmatch to be indicating interest in them.

No, I'm not like Dexter. I've killed two people who deserved it and one person who deserved it by proxy. That's it.
I'm not going to say any more except that I have a unique moral compass and felt completely justified in what I did.

33 year old, lay count over 45. Clearly not much experience because you, oh gran master, are probably over the hundred.

Im not desperate to know and i couldnt care less.

I can say i've killed 100 people, post my photo, that doesnt make it real. You only kill people in fortnite.

Go talk shit somewhere else.



Hahah triggered... 17 years old confirmed.

You're stark raving mad.
I offered an alternative in earnest so you could see my face.
But you are right to back down and walk away — likely a great symbol of your entire existence.
Remain the kind of person no one will regret not remembering.

 

[Deleted member 5799]

Not only that my country is on quarantine because of the virus, but you really think i would waste my time to travel to wherever the fuck you live just to confirm that someone i dont care about is this or that, how old are you, 15?

In what reality do you live??? Forgot your medication? Whats wrong with you?

Jesus ive seen all on internet

 

[RAITEIII]

I'm nor sure i believe this story. The napkin thing is just too much. Like her number okay, but a fucking dick?

 

[Fear]

Not only that my country is on quarantine because of the virus, but you really think i would waste my time to travel to wherever the fuck you live just to confirm that someone i dont care about is this or that, how old are you, 15?

In what reality do you live??? Forgot your medication? Whats wrong with you?

Jesus ive seen all on internet

What happened to "Took you a while to write that, were you cleaning your keyboard?"

You're not even confident enough to stick to your shit-tier insults, if you can even call them that.
You second-guess yourself within minutes and edit your posts.
High inhib, high anxiety, low confidence.
Sad.

Just back down already, you mongrel.
I've no interest in kicking people I pity.

 

[BigBoy]

No way she drew that holy shit

 

[Vidyacoper]

I've murdered people and admitted to it on this site.
I've not been caught and would prefer it stay that way.

how do you go about it lol

 

[laske.7]

At the behest of @Slayerino, I'm sharing another post-surgery "ascension" story.

Like many of you, I imagine, I never forget a rejection.

There are a lot of things you can do with that memory.
You can let it fester. You can use it as fuel to looksmax more.
Or you can plan to get even.

In my case, I've always believed, when the time was right, that I would one day confront every woman who's ever rejected me.
Perhaps it would take time — for some girls, decades, even — but I've always had the unshakable sense that it would happen, and that slowly but surely, the list of wrongs against me would be righted.

About a year ago, an opportunity to cross someone off this list presented itself, and I took it. This is what happened:

I match with this girl on Bumble who, several years before, had rejected me after I took and sent her a selfie at her request. I wasn't photogenic back then to start with, and the selfie camera lens distortion only added insult to injury, but even with that in mind, her response was pretty brutal: immediately after I sent it to her, the messages completely stopped coming, and a day or two later, she unmatched me entirely.

View attachment 323085

I recognize her when we match, but from the content of her messages and the questions she asks this time around, it's clear she thinks we've never spoken before. I'm not retarded, so I play along. Normally I'd swipe around on Bumble out of boredom, like at Thanksgiving or something, without much intent to actually pursue someone. But this time I have a plan: I was going to fuck this chick in revenge, and the last thing I wanted was to spoil things too soon.

After about 5 messages, she makes some flimsy excuse to ask for my phone number.
(The first time, I messaged her for days and got nowhere near getting a number.)
I give it to her and we text a bit before going to bed.

The next day she texts me. "What are you doing?" she asks. I respond vaguely and ask, "What about you?"
She says "Just watching a movie" and sends me a pic of her:

View attachment 323090

"Great," I say. That's all I say. It doesn't matter how good-looking I become, I'll probably always retain the cold, unapproachable attitude from my days as an ugly wretch. People disgust me.

"Do you want to do something?" she asks. After seeing those tits, yeah, you'd better fucking believe I want to do something. But I know what she means. I reply and we make plans to meet up for a date in an hour.

We go to play miniature golf. I have no idea why I suggested it. It's extremely gay and it's something I would never do, but she seemed like the type that would eat that shit up.

We meet in the parking lot. She's dressed in the same outfit from the picture.
She's about 5'4", skinny, and once again, blonde.
Her cheeks are a bit chubby but her lips had fillers and would make perfect cock-pads.
I do wish I could show her eyes because they were her best feature. Well, her second-best feature.

Also, I'm sure someone will say she's "average," and yeah, I agree, but you'd be missing the point:
If it has big tits and all four limbs, nothing else really matters, does it?

She gives me a little side-hug and I can feel her tit-flesh mash a tad deliberately into my chest. Fuck, what an amazing feeling. If you haven't gathered yet, I love big tits. Must be some kind of complex from my childhood or some shit.

We head in to play, and I absolutely destroy her. I am good at games and sports, especially useless ones like mini golf, badminton, and Jenga, but I'm also not holding back this time. She laughs at her own spectacular loss, and all in all, we actually have an objectively fun time.

We're leaving when I ask her what she's doing later. She says she has to study or do homework or something stupid with classmates for a few hours, but after that, nothing, and stands there smiling expectantly. I tell her she should come over when she's done. No pretext, no excuse, or no explanation given of what we would be doing — just, "Come over later this evening." She agrees.

I go home, grateful for the intermission. It gives me time to take Cialis and PT-141 and let them kick in. Perhaps both is overkill, but I want to experience everything in life to the fullest, and I am planning to downright murder this stupid slut's pussy.

She shows up about 4 hours later, around 7 PM.
I string her along for a bit just because I enjoy making these fucktoys work for it, like I used to have to.
We play billiards for a while, and then I get out a jigsaw puzzle for us to work on.

I was genuinely looking forward to the puzzle when she sits down on my couch and asks for a blanket. "I think I'm getting a little cough," she says, and coughs unconvincingly. I sit down and drape a blanket over her. She wiggles around and slowly makes her way to resting her head down on my lap. I make no resistance so she gets comfortable and rubs subtly against my dick.

I start squeezing her ass and feeling her up. "Would you rather lie down in bed instead of the couch?" I say. "Oh my god," she laughs, "I thought you'd never ask." She bounces up, clearly not under the weather, and we go upstairs.

As soon as we hit the bed, she starts feeling my dick through my pants. "God, you have a huge cock," she croons. I don't, actually — just under 7x5 — but I clamped the night before, and between that and the drugs, I had a cock right then that was hard enough to cut diamond.

We take our clothes off and I admire her tits. They're round and almost fake-looking, like grapefruits, with a big, whoreish gap between them like those implants that point to the sides. Perfect. She had a pretty nice ass and a slight belly too, which I actually enjoy grabbing on a girl; super-toned bodies are kind of boring.

I'm just about to start mauling her when she puts the damper on everything:
She tells me I have to wear a condom.

I protest. I hate condoms. They ruin the spontaneity, the risk, the primal vibe of good sex. She says she's a Christian and if she gets pregnant, abortion was not an option, so she needs me to wear protection; it's her "only rule" and she never breaks it. Fucking idiot. I relent because I sense there's no way around this, but my disappointment is immeasurable, and I immediately begin plotting ways to get the condom off.

I take her into the shower to fuck, hoping it might somehow wash off the condom. We get the water going and I take her really roughly from behind. The condom only slips slightly, but the sex is actually enjoyable on its own merit, so that was good. Also, my circulation is regularly somewhat poor so the hot water was a welcome addition. But by far the best part is watching her oiled tits hang and reaching down and squeezing them while I rammed her cunt mercilessly. Certain moments from different bangs stick with you, and I'll never forget when she looked back at me as I squeezed them, her hair wet and eyes pleading, and moaned, "Fuuuuuck my little pusssssy...."

We get out, towel off, and I throw her down on my bed. She spreads her legs and I begin assaulting her pussy again, this time missionary. Hoping the condom will come off naturally with enough vigor, I fuck her like it's the last day on Earth. I'm not a dirty talker but she's loving it and spouting off random shit. "God, I love fucking you..." she moans as she (I think?) cums. Finally, my dick is starting to hurt from fucking so hard, when at last, on an upstroke, I notice the condom has torn. She notices too because I stop.

"What are we doing to do?" I hold it up and examine it. She only had one in her backpack, and I don't own any.

"Ugh," she says, "you're making me break my rule."

She leans back, spreads her legs again, and pats her pussy, motioning for me to re-enter.

When I slide back in, this time raw, she holds her hand up to cover her eyes.
"Oh my god, it feels sooo fucking good."
I smirk to myself; I have won.

I spend the next 20 minutes determined to ruin this slut's pussy and suck the filling out of her tits.
When we finish, she's practically dead on my bedspread.

I get up to get dressed. I'm putting on my shirt when she climbs off the bed and saunters over. I just stare at her and continue putting my shirt on. She puts her hands on my waist and starts talking about maybe spending the night (it's a Saturday) or if not, what we'll do for our next date.; she mentions something retarded about getting macarons from a bakery she likes. I'm silent for a few seconds, and then reply.

"Did you know we matched a couple of years ago?"

A few more seconds of silence — this time, from her.

"What? Really?"
She replies like she either is still dazed, or, if it's true, would rather avoid the subject.

"You asked me to take a selfie one night, and I sent it to you. Then you unmatched me."

"What? Are you serious? Wow, I don't remember that at all."

"That's funny, because I remember it."

"Hm. Well that's weird... so, anyway, what are we gonna do?"

"Nothing. We're not going to do anything. I'd actually like you to leave."

She is silent.

"Yeah," I continue, "I'm not interested in you, I wanted to meet you just for this."

She has a pained, sour look on her face, her peabrain struggling to process the moment.

"I don't forget anything," I clarify.

"Umm... o-kaaaay."

"Yeah. Please leave."

I watch her get dressed, then I walk her to the door, smiling the whole time.
She leaves and gets in her car. She stays in my driveway for a long time before finally pulling away.

I never heard from her again.

----

To anyone asking for before/after pics of me: as much as I would like to oblige, I have to protect my identity. I am willing to share details in PMs regarding why, but I cannot release any identifying information about myself. Speaking on looks alone, I will say I am much more of a pretty boy phenotype and am very young-looking for my age. I'd put myself at about a 6 PSL, up from about a 3.25 before surgeries. Unremarkable (frankly, subpar) bone structure; excellent eye area, nose, skin quality; good ratios; very good harmony.

@Amnesia @Vidyacoper @AleksVs @forwardgrowth @Speedy @ht-normie-ascending @diggbicc @Norwooder @karbo @Patient A @HumidVent @ScramFranklin @Hopelessmofoker @Ethnicshit @kilgrave @JizzFarmer @laske.7 @baruch @middayshowers @Darkstrand @didntreadlol @Swescension

man u are giving me hope for life, fucking slayer

 

[Slayerullah]

Th

To follow up on my original story, I want to share one where I actually reversed the situation.
This was the first time I went out to meet a chick after I had hard-looksmaxxed.
Surgeries performed were otoplasty, double jaw surgery (LeFort I + BSSO), rhinoseptoplasty, and periorbital fat transfer.

I had matched on Tinder with another blonde.
Tighter body, younger, and better-looking face than the one in the first post.
Other than that, the circumstances were similar.

View attachment 321546 View attachment 321547 View attachment 321548

We agreed to meet at a bar.
I get there first and she shows up a few minutes later.

I introduce myself with a wave. I find human contact repulsive so I never try to do that "friendly, almost-hovering hug" bullshit.
She ignores that and hugs me, tightly. She's feeling me up for a few seconds before she lets go.
She pulls away and starts talking breathlessly. Eyes wide, beautiful horseshoe of teeth on full display.
Unconsciously touching my chest and my arm.
She's stumbling a tad over her words.
I'm already making her nervous.

We sit down at the bar. She orders a rum and coke. I order nothing.
I'm not thirsty and don't give a fuck about ordering something just to make other people feel comfortable.
She alternates between talking a lot nervously and then getting very shy and quiet, since I don't respond very much.
I'm not trying to be a dick, I just don't find many people that interesting.

The bartender, a buff white guy with tats, a slicked undercut, and a beard, starts making conversation with us.
We tell him we're on a first date.
Because we're both quiet — her because she's nervous and me because I DGAF — he probably thinks he can "help" us.
Either that or slip in and try to pick her up.
However, I'm certain she's interested in me already, and if you know that feeling, you know how unmistakable it is.
I kick back betting that whatever this man says, I probably already own her.

The bartender ends up hanging around to talk so much with us that it's awkward. It's like he's third-wheeling.
I don't care though. I smile and let him ramble. Most of the time I'm not even paying attention, since the NBA playoffs are on.
At some point I tune back in in time to hear him crack a joke. My date gives a polite "hah."
I make a joke in response and she laughs so hard her drink comes out her nose.
While she's laughing he tries to one-up me but she doesn't even notice.
He doesn't know it yet, but as I suspected, I have already won.

He transitions the conversation to what we have planned later.
He's trying so hard to be so casual about it that it's laughable.
Neither of us says much so he starts running his mouth about some private EDM pop-up show happening later that night.
He says to my date, "I heard you saying you like EDM music and I'm probably gonna go later myself... you should check it out."
I open my mouth to say something like "EDM is fucking gay," but my date beats me to the punch.
What she says next stuns me.

"I think I'm just gonna go back to his place, thanks though."

I'm not one to react to my own stories, but, damn:
View attachment 321460

This comes as news to me, and after maximum 45 minutes of an extremely low-effort performance on my part.
All I did was watch basketball, make one lame joke, and mostly say "mmhmm" or tease my date.
And none of that mattered. All I had to do to get what I wanted was sit there and look good.

"Oh OK... cool, cool," he says. Finally he occupies himself with polishing glasses and leaves us alone.
(What a rush to be the party benefiting from a woman's brutality for a change.)

We get up to leave a few minutes later. My date pays her tab and goes to the restroom.
When she gets back, I notice she's modified her outfit.
When I met her, she was in buttoned-up silk blouse and super tight leather pants.
But she came out of the restroom with the blouse unbuttoned, and instead tied in a knot at her waist, bra-less cleavage on display.
She didn't point it out, but there was no question about what was coming next.

I took her back to my place. I oil paint as a hobby and began showing her some of the paintings I was working on in my living room.
She nodded, feigning appreciation for maybe 60 seconds, before she could wait no longer and dragged me to my bedroom.

Some of the highlights:
- I went to eat her out at the beginning and she pulled me away. She grabbed me by the dick instead and said "Fuck me damn it."
- She was so loud in bed my neighbor pounded repeatedly on the wall. I wouldn't have cared but she was yelling my name out the window so I was little embarrassed.
- She volunteered eagerly to give me a rimjob. Nothing makes you feel like king of the world like a hot chick tonguing your ass.
- She begged me desperately to cum inside her and when I did she wrapped her legs around me like she didn't want to miss a drop.
- The first time she climaxed, she rolled off and said "Oh my god, you made me cum." Apparently she'd always had a difficult time getting a vaginal orgasm and couldn't believe it. "Feel my pussy" she said, and put my hand on it. It was absolutely throbbing.
- When we first met, she said she had to leave by a certain time so she could get to work in the morning. But after we fucked I had to practically kick her out. "I could stay here with you and you could give me orgasms all night."

We never met up again because she was an extremely clingy texter, but the point was that the difference in sexual interest, between her and the other girl, was unbelievable, and that looks truly are everything.

The personal satisfaction you must have gotten from that, the beautiful feeling of making another male completely invisible, good job man!

At the behest of @Slayerino, I'm sharing another post-surgery "ascension" story.

Like many of you, I imagine, I never forget a rejection.

There are a lot of things you can do with that memory.
You can let it fester. You can use it as fuel to looksmax more.
Or you can plan to get even.

In my case, I've always believed, when the time was right, that I would one day confront every woman who's ever rejected me.
Perhaps it would take time — for some girls, decades, even — but I've always had the unshakable sense that it would happen, and that slowly but surely, the list of wrongs against me would be righted.

About a year ago, an opportunity to cross someone off this list presented itself, and I took it. This is what happened:

I match with this girl on Bumble who, several years before, had rejected me after I took and sent her a selfie at her request. I wasn't photogenic back then to start with, and the selfie camera lens distortion only added insult to injury, but even with that in mind, her response was pretty brutal: immediately after I sent it to her, the messages completely stopped coming, and a day or two later, she unmatched me entirely.

View attachment 323085

I recognize her when we match, but from the content of her messages and the questions she asks this time around, it's clear she thinks we've never spoken before. I'm not retarded, so I play along. Normally I'd swipe around on Bumble out of boredom, like at Thanksgiving or something, without much intent to actually pursue someone. But this time I have a plan: I was going to fuck this chick in revenge, and the last thing I wanted was to spoil things too soon.

After about 5 messages, she makes some flimsy excuse to ask for my phone number.
(The first time, I messaged her for days and got nowhere near getting a number.)
I give it to her and we text a bit before going to bed.

The next day she texts me. "What are you doing?" she asks. I respond vaguely and ask, "What about you?"
She says "Just watching a movie" and sends me a pic of her:

View attachment 323090

"Great," I say. That's all I say. It doesn't matter how good-looking I become, I'll probably always retain the cold, unapproachable attitude from my days as an ugly wretch. People disgust me.

"Do you want to do something?" she asks. After seeing those tits, yeah, you'd better fucking believe I want to do something. But I know what she means. I reply and we make plans to meet up for a date in an hour.

We go to play miniature golf. I have no idea why I suggested it. It's extremely gay and it's something I would never do, but she seemed like the type that would eat that shit up.

We meet in the parking lot. She's dressed in the same outfit from the picture.
She's about 5'4", skinny, and once again, blonde.
Her cheeks are a bit chubby but her lips had fillers and would make perfect cock-pads.
I do wish I could show her eyes because they were her best feature. Well, her second-best feature.

Also, I'm sure someone will say she's "average," and yeah, I agree, but you'd be missing the point:
If it has big tits and all four limbs, nothing else really matters, does it?

She gives me a little side-hug and I can feel her tit-flesh mash a tad deliberately into my chest. Fuck, what an amazing feeling. If you haven't gathered yet, I love big tits. Must be some kind of complex from my childhood or some shit.

We head in to play, and I absolutely destroy her. I am good at games and sports, especially useless ones like mini golf, badminton, and Jenga, but I'm also not holding back this time. She laughs at her own spectacular loss, and all in all, we actually have an objectively fun time.

We're leaving when I ask her what she's doing later. She says she has to study or do homework or something stupid with classmates for a few hours, but after that, nothing, and stands there smiling expectantly. I tell her she should come over when she's done. No pretext, no excuse, or no explanation given of what we would be doing — just, "Come over later this evening." She agrees.

I go home, grateful for the intermission. It gives me time to take Cialis and PT-141 and let them kick in. Perhaps both is overkill, but I want to experience everything in life to the fullest, and I am planning to downright murder this stupid slut's pussy.

She shows up about 4 hours later, around 7 PM.
I string her along for a bit just because I enjoy making these fucktoys work for it, like I used to have to.
We play billiards for a while, and then I get out a jigsaw puzzle for us to work on.

I was genuinely looking forward to the puzzle when she sits down on my couch and asks for a blanket. "I think I'm getting a little cough," she says, and coughs unconvincingly. I sit down and drape a blanket over her. She wiggles around and slowly makes her way to resting her head down on my lap. I make no resistance so she gets comfortable and rubs subtly against my dick.

I start squeezing her ass and feeling her up. "Would you rather lie down in bed instead of the couch?" I say. "Oh my god," she laughs, "I thought you'd never ask." She bounces up, clearly not under the weather, and we go upstairs.

As soon as we hit the bed, she starts feeling my dick through my pants. "God, you have a huge cock," she croons. I don't, actually — just under 7x5 — but I clamped the night before, and between that and the drugs, I had a cock right then that was hard enough to cut diamond.

We take our clothes off and I admire her tits. They're round and almost fake-looking, like grapefruits, with a big, whoreish gap between them like those implants that point to the sides. Perfect. She had a pretty nice ass and a slight belly too, which I actually enjoy grabbing on a girl; super-toned bodies are kind of boring.

I'm just about to start mauling her when she puts the damper on everything:
She tells me I have to wear a condom.

I protest. I hate condoms. They ruin the spontaneity, the risk, the primal vibe of good sex. She says she's a Christian and if she gets pregnant, abortion was not an option, so she needs me to wear protection; it's her "only rule" and she never breaks it. Fucking idiot. I relent because I sense there's no way around this, but my disappointment is immeasurable, and I immediately begin plotting ways to get the condom off.

I take her into the shower to fuck, hoping it might somehow wash off the condom. We get the water going and I take her really roughly from behind. The condom only slips slightly, but the sex is actually enjoyable on its own merit, so that was good. Also, my circulation is regularly somewhat poor so the hot water was a welcome addition. But by far the best part is watching her oiled tits hang and reaching down and squeezing them while I rammed her cunt mercilessly. Certain moments from different bangs stick with you, and I'll never forget when she looked back at me as I squeezed them, her hair wet and eyes pleading, and moaned, "Fuuuuuck my little pusssssy...."

We get out, towel off, and I throw her down on my bed. She spreads her legs and I begin assaulting her pussy again, this time missionary. Hoping the condom will come off naturally with enough vigor, I fuck her like it's the last day on Earth. I'm not a dirty talker but she's loving it and spouting off random shit. "God, I love fucking you..." she moans as she (I think?) cums. Finally, my dick is starting to hurt from fucking so hard, when at last, on an upstroke, I notice the condom has torn. She notices too because I stop.

"What are we doing to do?" I hold it up and examine it. She only had one in her backpack, and I don't own any.

"Ugh," she says, "you're making me break my rule."

She leans back, spreads her legs again, and pats her pussy, motioning for me to re-enter.

When I slide back in, this time raw, she holds her hand up to cover her eyes.
"Oh my god, it feels sooo fucking good."
I smirk to myself; I have won.

I spend the next 20 minutes determined to ruin this slut's pussy and suck the filling out of her tits.
When we finish, she's practically dead on my bedspread.

I get up to get dressed. I'm putting on my shirt when she climbs off the bed and saunters over. I just stare at her and continue putting my shirt on. She puts her hands on my waist and starts talking about maybe spending the night (it's a Saturday) or if not, what we'll do for our next date.; she mentions something retarded about getting macarons from a bakery she likes. I'm silent for a few seconds, and then reply.

"Did you know we matched a couple of years ago?"

A few more seconds of silence — this time, from her.

"What? Really?"
She replies like she either is still dazed, or, if it's true, would rather avoid the subject.

"You asked me to take a selfie one night, and I sent it to you. Then you unmatched me."

"What? Are you serious? Wow, I don't remember that at all."

"That's funny, because I remember it."

"Hm. Well that's weird... so, anyway, what are we gonna do?"

"Nothing. We're not going to do anything. I'd actually like you to leave."

She is silent.

"Yeah," I continue, "I'm not interested in you, I wanted to meet you just for this."

She has a pained, sour look on her face, her peabrain struggling to process the moment.

"I don't forget anything," I clarify.

"Umm... o-kaaaay."

"Yeah. Please leave."

I watch her get dressed, then I walk her to the door, smiling the whole time.
She leaves and gets in her car. She stays in my driveway for a long time before finally pulling away.

I never heard from her again.

----

To anyone asking for before/after pics of me: as much as I would like to oblige, I have to protect my identity. I am willing to share details in PMs regarding why, but I cannot release any identifying information about myself. Speaking on looks alone, I will say I am much more of a pretty boy phenotype and am very young-looking for my age. I'd put myself at about a 6 PSL, up from about a 3.25 before surgeries. Unremarkable (frankly, subpar) bone structure; excellent eye area, nose, skin quality; good ratios; very good harmony.

You are too descriptive man, I could almost feel myself fucking this bitch, and her talking in her Kylie Jenner voice.

 

[MandibularCel]

Come on, are we really believing that

No

 

[Nosecel]

My birth

 

[Deleted member 4887]

What brought me to pursue surgeries is my realisation from the blackpill that I am not as good looking as I thought I was. Before I thought, oh well I am exotic and my nose isn't a big deal so all I need is a sharp jaw.

Now that I know where I stand I'll do anything I can to get up there

No doubt it's a lifetime of events or cruel things people said that pushed you to begin soft looksmaxing.
But would like to know what experience or moment led you to pull the trigger on finally getting surgeries.

For me, it was an absolutely brutal mogging I experienced in my early twenties.

A buddy invited me out to a dive bar for a double date. He'd matched with a girl on Tinder and her friend.
Bars aren't really my scene but it sounded like fun enough, so I agreed to meet up with them.

I went into it without expectations. Back then, I was OK-looking, had had a few relationships and some hookups, but I cared about looks no more than the average guy. I grew up very poor, so money was more my focus. I had been out of college and working in finance for a few years and was making insane money for any age; based on that, I felt quite good about myself. So really I was looking forward to wasting some time that night and meeting someone new.

We got there before the girls and waited at the bar.
When they showed up, I panicked a little. My friend's match turned out to be a ginger, and something about gingers always seems... undercooked to me.
But then I saw her friend — dirty blonde, lightly tanned, ~5'5" with big tits in a low-cut top — and relief passed over me in an awesome wave.

View attachment 318235

Now in retrospect, of course, this girl wasn't higher than a 4 PSL.
Really all she had going for her was that she was white, not fat, and had a real pair of warlocks.
At the time though, that was enough, and I was totally down to fuck her lights out if it came to that.

We all sit down at the bar. My friend and his match actually hit it off, and remain engrossed in conversation the rest of the night.
My date, meanwhile, orders a beer and begins watching baseball up on the TV.
She hasn't even introduced herself to me yet, and I'm trying to figure out if she's autistic or just rude.
I make a few attempts at casual conversation, but all efforts are met with "uh-huhs" and dead-end answers.

I'm not terribly upset about this — actually, I found it funny at first, since I didn't really like people too much myself.
I also wasn't desperate to get laid, so I didn't really give a fuck about her one way or another.
But something about her attitude starts to irritate me.

I try asking her a few different kinds of questions. It doesn't go anywhere.
Eventually, she just stops responding entirely.

Out of boredom, I start grabbing massive fistfuls of peanuts and shelling them open on the bar.
I flick them around and some hit her arm and her drink.
She doesn't even react and continues watching the game. I laugh to myself in disbelief.
I didn't really care what this chick's deal was at first, but now I'm getting pissed off.
I try to gauge the vibe she's giving off.

It wasn't that she was offended that someone like me was trying to engage her, like how some snooty girls can be.
Actually, that would have been better, because then I would have at least commanded a sliver of her attention.
But there was clearly none of that.

No... it was that I had been disqualified and rendered invisible from the moment she set eyes on me.
For her, I didn't even deserve to have my existence acknowledged — not even as a potential sexual partner, but just as a human being.
She was, in other words, absolutely, palpably indifferent to me.

I didn't conclude this in such explicit terms in my head when it was happening, but I had an intuitive sense of it.
With that, I decide to write her off and try to find something to do.
I call over the bartender from down the bar so I can at least have someone to talk to.
As he comes over and into view, I see he's a decent-looking guy. 6'1" or so, tan Hispanic, dark hair in an undercut before it was popular, and a few tattoos.
Basically what girls with average tastes might consider "hot."

He starts talking to me. He's a likable and interesting guy, as bartenders are wont to be, and he's cool to talk to.
As soon as he comes over, my date speaks up. She becomes a completely different person.
She's suddenly very talkative, bubbly — I can't believe the change in her demeanor.

He's a solid bro and tries to keep me included in the flow of conversation, but she's essentially talking to just him.
She flirts like mad the entire time and he reciprocates to some degree, but I suspect he's being polite/doing the whole bartender shtick to get a good tip.
I'm stunned by her blatant disregard for the glaring disparity in how she's treating each of us.

He leaves and comes back multiples to check on us. Each time my date keeps flirting and asking him very personal questions. At some point I give up trying to work my way into the conversation. I have realized I am powerless to do anything, and before this man behind the bar, I am NOT EVEN HUMAN to her. In between him stopping by, she adjusts her bra right in front of me to make sure her boobs are pushed up and mashed together to the max. Again, I am floored: he makes her a bitch in heat with a smile and a wink; I cannot even obtain eye contact. We are on completely different planes of reality.

This goes on for about an hour. Over the course of it, I gradually internalize what's unfolding before me. By the end, I am sitting at the bar defeated, a pathetic heap playing quietly with peanuts. She finally gets up to talk to her friend, my buddy's Tinder match. It looks like they're planning to head out at last. My friend and his match hug, while my date walks right past me toward the exit; I do not exist. Right before leaving, she leans over the bar and writes something down on a napkin. She hands it with a big grin to the bartender and runs out.

I shuffle over to the bartender, mouth agape. I am still processing the events of the past hour and a half. He hands me the napkin; she's given him her number. He laughs and says "You can keep it man, I'm not interested." This guy... he had so many options, he wouldn't even bother fucking her. Not only that, but I am not jealous of him, and this enrages me. It would have been easier to bear if he were a douchebag and went for it. Realizing this, I am on the verge of furious collapse.

That's when I looked at the napkin. When I saw it, my entire being was condensed to a single point of dumbfounded, helpless, seething frustration.
I have kept it to this day:

View attachment 318234

It was then that I realized that my genetics and my upbringing had failed me.
That without a course correction, I was destined for the wastebin of society.
That as I was, I was not enough.

TLDR: Slut with big tits ignores me on date, throws herself at bartender; I get mogged to Alpha Centauri and resolve to get surgery.

I have experienced something like this, I was in a group project with an average foid + another dude who was 5'5 and my looksmatch( I am about 6'1 so it was a brutal mog) . She was interested in what I had to say (I was repulsed by her though, I fucking hate foids after I got blackpilled) and was flirting etc and he kept trying to make little jokes and conversation with her and she would just ignore him.

Then after I kept ignoring the foid she would start speaking to him for a few minutes and after realising I'm not jealous she came back to me even stronger

 

[Deleted member 4209]

being bullied for entire school and uni life due to looks

 

[Deleted member 1212]

Holy fuck I've been on both sides of this shit

I was an utter subhuman at 17/18. Shaved head, fat, pale, awful skin, dressed like a slob, etc etc. Whenever I was out with friends I'd get treated like shit by people but especially girls. I always realised that it was because I was ugly but still constantly let them convince me to come along with them. I also didn't know why I was ugly. Then one day we're going to the casino with a few guys and while picking up the last one he straight up laughs at me and points to my belly telling me how fat I got. Not in a mean-spirited way, that guy is a real bro.

So fast forward 4 years at 21-22. At this point I'd stopped going out with them to clubs/bars etc and would only hang out on weekends whenever we'd get drunk and play card games or FIFA or whatever at someone's place for the past 3 years. I'm in great shape, way better skin and skintone, fade, clothes that fit etc etc. Say 5psl. My friends constantly mention how good I look (in comparison to what I was before, obviously). Went on holiday with those same homies to some place you go to to get completely wasted for 8 days, decided to go with them as I feel a lot more confident in my own body at this point.

At this point I'm a 22 year old kissless virgin. But the way I got treated that holiday was fucking unreal for me. People were actually nice. Girls were actually looking at me without disgust in their faces. Bartenders would actually get to me within a reasonable time and not leave me standing for 10 minutes. Years of being subhuman and being treated accordingly have socially conditioned me to still be retarded with anyone I don't know well at this point.

Anyway enough rambling, one night we're playing some drinking games with my homies, a group of 4 girls and a group 4 other guys that we met at our apartment complex to get in the mood for the night of clubbing. Some tension between me and this 4psl slut but I'm too autistic at this point to get my dick wet. One of these guys has a little laser pen that he shines on this chicks ass and me and my friend grab it for the luls, she's giggling. Goes on for about 5 minutes of us just shamelessly groping this whore in public jfl. But the second this 5'4" Indonesian guy decides to join in the flips her shit and calls him a peanut creep. I couldn't believe my eyes.

how did you ascend? you just lost weight?

 

[Gazzamogga]

how did you ascend? you just lost weight?

weight loss, proper diet, good haircut, clothes that fit

this was years ago before i had all the looksmax knowledge on this forum. I'm now fat again and my collagen has been raped as well which I'm both working on rn

 

[Deleted member 1212]

weight loss, proper diet, good haircut, clothes that fit

this was years ago before i had all the looksmax knowledge on this forum. I'm now fat again and my collagen has been raped as well which I'm both working on rn

so basically you were volcel, your face was already good just buried in high bf

 

[Gazzamogga]

so basically you were volcel, your face was already good just buried in high bf

never claimed to be incel

my face isn't that good either, but body halo is insane

 

[Deleted member 1212]

never claimed to be incel

my face isn't that good either, but body halo is insane

your body wasnt skinny af when you were low bf?

 

[Gazzamogga]

your body wasnt skinny af when you were low bf?

no I looked like I lifted in a shirt and was lean enough for abs to show

 

[Deleted member 1212]

no I looked like I lifted in a shirt and was lean enough for abs to show

so you just got really low body fat and lifted bascially?

 

[Gazzamogga]

so you just got really low body fat and lifted bascially?

like 15% yea

 

[Slayerino]

@Darkwill I'm waiting for your next story.

 

[kilgrave]

These should be bound into a collection at some point. I know it's "off topic", but what about those unabridged murder stories?

 

[badmantier]

When I was young, people would constantly tell me how good-looking I was. All of my mom's friend's daughters who would babysit/take care of me when I was a child would tell her that they wanna marry me when I was older, because I was gonna be a lady-killer. Whenever I would get my haircut the women would tell me I need to model. This was me before I turned 16, as after that puberty fucked me up. Mother nature decided to hit me w/ a shit ton of acne, and my face looked bloated. I got rid of most of the acne, but I still have some bloat left. Basically for me, I started considering surgery when I realized that I have good features, but one or two unideal things or arrangements cover these features. So I know that w/ just some slight adjustments, I could really become much better looking. Ngl, blackpill made me consider it more cuz I realized just how important looks are to every aspect of your life. Even before blackpill tho, I learned about the importance of looks in a psychology class at my uni, how studies show that despite women often underrating the importance of looks in a potential mate, they often consider it to be just as important as men do for women when they measure their behavior thru objective measures (e.g. heart rate, blood flow in the genitals, etc.)
I believe the procedures I am looking into aren't things I can fix by myself. Like for buccal fat removal, I have a bit of chub in my cheeks despite being skinny. And it sucks because I have a square jaw and high set cheekbones, so if I had hollow cheeks it would give me a lot more points of attractiveness. I've also been considering eye surgery, tho that's not as serious. I'm rice but my eyes aren't as bad as the typical rice, I just sometimes feel like they could be wider. I'm not that serious about eye procedures tho, the only one I'm legitimately considering is buccal fat removal, or maybe lipo to take some of the bloat away from my cheeks. I cope by thinking these aren't drastic procedures that make big changes

 

[Slayerino]

When I was young, people would constantly tell me how good-looking I was. All of my mom's friend's daughters who would babysit/take care of me when I was a child would tell her that they wanna marry me when I was older, because I was gonna be a lady-killer. Whenever I would get my haircut the women would tell me I need to model. This was me before I turned 16, as after that puberty fucked me up. Mother nature decided to hit me w/ a shit ton of acne, and my face looked bloated. I got rid of most of the acne, but I still have some bloat left. Basically for me, I started considering surgery when I realized that I have good features, but one or two unideal things or arrangements cover these features. So I know that w/ just some slight adjustments, I could really become much better looking. Ngl, blackpill made me consider it more cuz I realized just how important looks are to every aspect of your life. Even before blackpill tho, I learned about the importance of looks in a psychology class at my uni, how studies show that despite women often underrating the importance of looks in a potential mate, they often consider it to be just as important as men do for women when they measure their behavior thru objective measures (e.g. heart rate, blood flow in the genitals, etc.)
I believe the procedures I am looking into aren't things I can fix by myself. Like for buccal fat removal, I have a bit of chub in my cheeks despite being skinny. And it sucks because I have a square jaw and high set cheekbones, so if I had hollow cheeks it would give me a lot more points of attractiveness. I've also been considering eye surgery, tho that's not as serious. I'm rice but my eyes aren't as bad as the typical rice, I just sometimes feel like they could be wider. I'm not that serious about eye procedures tho, the only one I'm legitimately considering is buccal fat removal, or maybe lipo to take some of the bloat away from my cheeks. I cope by thinking these aren't drastic procedures that make big changes

OvER

 

[badmantier]

OvER

I've already fucked some white girls. But w/ looksmaxxing I can get better

 

[GetThatBread]

What woke me up to the black pill was my job last year; the dirtiest clowns pitied me even though I was the youngest

 

[Slayerino]

I've already fucked some white girls. But w/ looksmaxxing I can get better

PM me pics. I'll rate you.

 

[Fear]

I will preface this story by saying up-front:
This one does not end well for me.

Almost two years ago, I had a profile on OKCupid. Yes, I know – if Tinder and Bumble have devolved into cesspools, then OKC is a radioactive waste dump, but that’s what I was doing, so just go with it.

The pickings on that app are slim, but even among the lookers, the worst part is that it’s a desert of homogeneity. You know what I mean: landwhales who don’t know what “curvy” means, and cardboard cutouts too braindead to speak to anything besides how much they like dogs, food, and The Office. A wasteland.

My eyes have glazed over one morning when I'm on the app and I nearly swipe left on a profile. I stop and scroll through it. She’s pretty – not perfectly so – but different. She’s used a handle instead of her first name, and she’s written a few short sentences about things like Byzantine fault tolerance, the Library of Alexandria, and how she’s going to change the world. I look at her pictures again. There is a quality of intelligence in her eyes that eludes the edges of description. Sad? Worldly? Godlike, even? I don’t know. But I am intrigued, and I am ravenous for anyone who can still intrigue me.

I am experienced enough to know that even if you look good, swiping and hoping means nothing on an app like that. And for reference, I am mostly pleased with how I look at this point: I was still waiting on facial fat grafts and was frauding with a bit of makeup in the meantime, but I had racked up a stack of triple-digit likes from average and below girls already.

This girl, however, is different. She will require a special touch to yield the response I desire – and I sense it will be worth it.

I get to work on finding out everything about her, convinced I’ll unearth something I can use that will be guaranteed to catch her eye. I am skilled at this, as I bet many of us are, but I haven’t done it or needed to in a long time, and I feel somewhat subhuman soiling my hands with such a task. Regardless, it doesn’t seem to matter at first. Reverse image searches, social media, and the like all come up empty.

I think to try her handle instead. It’s a unique username, but not entirely so, and the search returns a few Instagram accounts, Facebook posts, etc. that make reference to it. I can quickly tell they’re not her and don’t bother investigating beyond the first few. I continue to tab through several pages of search results. Eventually, I spot a potential hit: a nearly identical username shows up in an archive of a clearweb proxy for an onion address. It’s a cached post from a darkweb message board.

The poster has written how they want to buy an unregistered gun and are asking for sources. Their own replies in the thread go on to provide a surprisingly naive number of details about their life. I cross-check what they’ve said with elements of the girl’s profile – her location, age, and linguistic style – and it really does sound like her.

I fire up Tor and revisit the message board. I find the account again and comb through the rest of this person’s posts. They discuss intimate involvement in things like credit card fraud, PayPal scams, and fraudulent bank transfers. I digest everything, hearing the wheels in my own head turning. I mull it over for a minute, then decide: I have what I need, and I cannot help but laugh.

There is theoretically a small risk with what I am about to do, especially since she may have a gun and my personal information and pictures are on the app, but the worst probable result is that I am wrong about her identity and simply get blocked or ignored.

I compose a message carefully written to catch her attention in an unignorable way: I lay out, in all caps at the top of the message, a list of every crime she had elsewhere admitted to committing. “There’s no point in denying it, so let’s skip that part,” I go on to write. I then tell her I could go to the police about what’s she done, but she seems interesting and I would genuinely rather meet her. Finally, I add that if she doesn’t believe that I would pursue this with the authorities, she should think again, because apparently I was already willing to go so far as to dig up dirt on someone I didn’t even know, so there’s no telling how much further I’d take things. Autismmax.me, indeed.

I send the message and wait. Realistically speaking, there’s an extremely low chance that’d she even see my message, much less respond to it, so I’ve likely built this up a lot more in my head than it it’s worth.

Three days pass. Then I hear back from her.

Her reply is two lines long:
She says she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
And she asks where I would like to meet.

I’m in disbelief but I don’t say anything to betray it. After a little back and forth, we agree to meet that weekend at a coffee shop near her, in this giant indoor marketplace with lots of vendors and foot traffic. She lives in a city an hour’s drive away from me, but I needed a location where she couldn’t get away with putting a bullet in my head too easily, in case that’s what I was walking into. I also figured I had kind of blackmailed her, so the least I could do was go to her instead of making her come to me.



The day comes and I arrive early at the coffee shop. I grab a chair at the intersection of four different ways to enter the seating area so she can see me no matter which way she comes in. I wait. Our agreed meeting time passes with no indication that she’s arrived. Soon, she is 5, 10, 15 minutes late. I decide to message her on OKC when she messages me first.

Her message tells me to go outside, to the street. I have to walk around a few times since it’s my first time in the area, but I find where she’s talking about. There’s a car idling at the curb. I walk toward it but keep my distance. No, I’m not low inhib, I just don’t want to get fucking shot. I tilt my head down to try to peer through the passenger window, and it rolls down.

It’s her.

“Hi there,” I say from like 10 feet away.
“Hello,” she says.

“Are… you coming in, or what?” I ask.
She asks me in turn if I can just get in her car.

“Are you kidding? Fuck no,” I laugh. This shit is ridiculous, and part of me starts to regret this harebrained plan.
I tell her to park her fucking car and come inside.

I go back to wait in the coffee shop. A few minutes later, she comes over to my table and sits down.

She’s 5’7” and looks pretty much like her pictures. She is quite thin, almost noticeably so. Nose has an unusual bump, which you can see, but something about it makes me appreciate her, as perfection can randomly send me into a rage. Her eyes are stunning. She’s got a grey t-shirt with a sort of micro-corduroy texture that I still remember, and black pants – there are no slutty vibes at all.

Also, no, she does not have big boobs.

She is on edge. I try to break the ice without explicitly apologizing for scaring her into coming. As we all know, unless you’ve just run over her puppy or something, never tell a woman you’re sorry. She tells me she thought I was the police, or that I wasn’t real.

I brush it off; she seemed smart enough, I say, to appreciate the amount and unique type of effort I put into getting her attention; average girls would run for the hills. She laughs softly and says “Mhm.” It seems to resonate with her.

I don’t know exactly what to do, so I decide to just proceed as though if everything about this situation were normal, and begin trying to get to know her. I tell her a mix of things about myself and ask her whatever comes naturally to me. She isn't bothered by this, and I cannot explain it since I’ve only experienced this feeling two other times in my life, but within ten or so minutes, things simply flow between us. She opens up about astronomy, her coding projects, how she was orphaned, her love of baking, and how she plans to change the world. For my part, I am a rapt listener: she fascinates me, and intuitively, I just know things about her – what she means and where’s she coming from – and she feeds off of that. We sit at the table and pass the time for about an hour this way. The topics of the police, or her crimes, or how I got her to meet me never come up again.

After an hour, my butt is sore from sitting. I tell her, “Let’s walk around.” There are a lot of things to see in this marketplace, and I’ve never been. Interestingly to me, I normally don’t give a shit about this kind of stuff, but I don’t mind being there this time. I’ve so far also not felt inclined to turn on any intentional charm. I wonder why, and realize slowly that I think I’m genuinely enjoying her company; it’s bizarre that it would be in these circumstances, but I’m getting to be myself with someone for the first time in a long time.

We walk around and continue talking. Maybe half an hour in, I make some wisecrack about something at one of the shops. She laughs sweetly – she has a soft laugh that lilts up a note at the end – and reaches over to hold my hand. To be frank, I snap out of the moment for a split-second and am shocked, but then I relax and let it happen. She intertwines our fingers and loops her arm through mine, and doesn’t let go the rest of the afternoon. Again, I cannot explain how, but it feels natural, and it is a moment I will never forget.

I walk her back to her car when we’re done. My car’s parked in a different structure, and she offers to drive me back.

When we get to my car, she parks and just kind of stares straight ahead, not saying anything.
For all my boldness in orchestrating this, I don’t know how to end this blackmail-turned-date, so I sit there too.

“Well,” I begin. She leans in and starts making out with me.

I’ve learned to suspend my surprise by now. She’s also a very good kisser, or perhaps it’s that we’re very in sync while kissing. Some people you’re not compatible with, but she was a good balance of everything; assertive, but giving too.

When we finish, she puts her hand on my leg and lowers her head a bit toward my crotch, looking up at me.
“Can I?” she says. For anyone I’m about to lose: I assure you, I’m not making this up.

This is much more than I was prepared for, and I decline. I actually don’t like normal blowjobs, where I’m just sitting there passively; I need to be actively fucking someone’s throat to be interested in it.

“But,” I venture, “maybe we can pick things up next weekend?”

She kisses me again and says OK.

I collect myself for a moment. “I have to tell you,” I say, “I didn’t expect anything like this to happen.”

She laughs and says “Well, I did think you’re insane, but you’re also really hot.”



The following Saturday, I text her first thing when I wake up. I have thought about her all week.

“Hey”
“Hey”
“Want to come over”
“Yeah I’ll see you around 10:30”
“K”

It was a thing of beauty to me how little need be said between us so early in knowing each other.

I drive an hour again to meet her and I spend the day at her apartment. It’s perfect. A little messy in a cute way. Lots of books, clothes, and functional things strewn about. None of that crap average girls have, like pillows embroidered with “Live, Laugh, Love.” There is also lots of sunlight.

We talk and I help her make brownies (not special brownies; I don’t fucking do drugs.) I’m not a fan of sweets, but she’s gone to the effort to make them from scratch, and she claims to be good at baking. I have a few and she isn’t lying. Because my lower jaw is still numb from surgery, I miss some chocolate smeared on my chin. “Aww,” she laughs, and wipes it, and something about it just then is surreal to me. Yes, I of course never imagined this would come from threatening to report a cybercriminal to the police, but part of me also never thought I would have an experience like this altogether – I thought it would just be hookups with girls I felt contempt for forever.

When we finish eating, she takes me to her bedroom.
I’ll skip the details as I’m sure everyone’s sick of hearing about my sex life.
The one thing I will say though is this:

I’ll always remember lying in her bed after we had finished, an arm draped over her, the sun filtering down on us through the trees outside her window. She takes my hand and playfully tries to get up – she uses cash everywhere (she withdraws thousands a week) and has to go to the bank before they close. I pull her back down and tell her I just want us to stay here. She laughs and finally yanks me, grumbling but unable to hide my smile, out of bed. She slips on nothing but an oversized sweater and shoes and says “Come on!” with a wave as she leaves the room. I sit on the edge of her bed and watch as she goes. Something about the whole moment just stuck with me. I see now that I didn’t want it to end. I was happy. And though I didn’t know it yet, I was in love with her.

That began a trend of seeing her every weekend, and then, weekdays too.
Before I knew it, we had been dating for 8 months. Those were the happiest months of my life.



The last time I saw her, we went for a walk through the hills overlooking the city where she lived. We reached a great vista after a bit of a hike and stopped to take in the view.

She gazed out at the city the whole time we were up there, almost like I wasn’t there. She was talkative in bursts, and then wouldn’t say anything for a while. She spoke about random things, seemingly as the ideas came to her, as if she were thinking aloud. Some of the things she said were about me; what specifically she said, though it was nothing of great significance, I would like to keep to myself, as those words are among the final memories I have of her.

We spent two hours up there, and she was shivering before long. We were dressed warm, but it was nearly dusk, and she always got cold easily. It was actually kind of cute because she always tried to talk and behave normally through her teeth chattering. I suggested a few times that we get going before it got much colder – and truth be told, I was getting a little restless – but she kept saying “Just a little while longer,” so eventually I let it go.

When I could wait no longer, I made up an excuse and told her I had to be home by a certain time and needed to get home. “OK,” she said a couple of times. “OK.” We got up from the bench we were on and made the trek back to her car. I distinctly remember her not taking my hand on the long walk down.

She drove us back to her apartment, where I had parked. During the drive, she smiled.
She had one hand on the wheel and was back to holding my hand super tightly with the other.

When we got back to her place, I kissed her goodbye for a few minutes.
Then I got out and waved to her as I walked to my car.



The next day, though I didn't know it at the time, she killed herself.

I found out after the fact, and with some difficulty. I didn’t text her for a few days following our last meeting. When I did, several days passed without a response. I called as well and it went to voicemail. I figured at first that she might have gone overseas: she traveled a lot and would use a different SIM, and it had happened once before. That time, I had got a hold of her by email, so I tried that this time as well.

A few days of radio silence turned into a month. She never responded to my email, so I drove to her apartment and knocked on her door. No one responded, and though she had asked me to move in with her a couple of times over the months, I didn't have a key. The neighboring tenants were no help, and as I stated before, she was an orphan, so she had no family to speak of. I didn’t know what else to do, so I waited the whole day there in front of her door. No one ever came in or out.

I didn’t sleep much during those weeks, and on my face I think it took a permanent toll. I spent all my time cycling through all the possibilities in my mind: did she get hurt? Did some of this shady business she was involved in come back to bite her? And I feel bad now for having considered it, but did she simply just ghost me? I became frenzied trying to figure out what had happened.

Desperation eventually brought me back to her darkweb activity. I pulled up the old message board where she had posted before, hopeful for any clues. I knew she had mentioned something about a gun when I first found her, and I wondered if that had anything to do with this.

It turns out that it did. She had made several posts elaborating on the one I stumbled upon 8 months prior – the one in which she had been asking how to purchase an unregistered gun. These later posts detailed her desire to use that gun to kill herself. I read with pain how many responses urged her not to do it. They told her to think of and lean on her loved ones. They told her the future would be worth it. But she ignored them, and had posted about her intent to go through with it as recently as 20 days before I last saw her.

I requested a death certificate as soon as I could to confirm my suspicions, but really, I already knew the truth.
And when it arrived in the mail, and I held it in my hands, whatever closure it brought could do nothing to ease one feeling:
The sickening pain I felt when I realized that I never told her that I loved her.

There are many lessons to be learned from this, but to keep it relevant and end on a lighter note:

You can be insane, but if you’re hot, that’s all that matters.

@Amnesia @Vidyacoper @AleksVs @forwardgrowth @Speedy @ht-normie-ascending @diggbicc @Norwooder @karbo @Patient A @HumidVent @ScramFranklin @Hopelessmofoker @Ethnicshit @kilgrave @JizzFarmer @laske.7 @baruch @middayshowers @Darkstrand @didntreadlol @Swescension @Moneymaxxed @kms_currycell @nastynas @Slayerullah @Got the hunter eyes @GigaTyroneOrDeath @LayDownAndCope @PrisonMike @ProjectAscension @WhatToDo @EternalLearner @BigBoy @sloopnoob @Slayerino

 

[kilgrave]

I will preface this story by saying up-front:
This one does not end well for me.

Almost two years ago, I had a profile on OKCupid. Yes, I know – if Tinder and Bumble have devolved into cesspools, then OKC is a radioactive waste dump, but that’s what I was doing, so just go with it.

The pickings on that app are slim, but even among the lookers, the worst part is that it’s a desert of homogeneity. You know what I mean: landwhales who don’t know what “curvy” means, and cardboard cutouts too braindead to speak to anything besides how much they like dogs, food, and The Office. A wasteland.

My eyes have glazed over one morning when I'm on the app and I nearly swipe left on a profile. I stop and scroll through it. She’s pretty – not perfectly so – but different. She’s used a handle instead of her first name, and she’s written a few short sentences about things like Byzantine fault tolerance, the Library of Alexandria, and how she’s going to change the world. I look at her pictures again. There is a quality of intelligence in her eyes that eludes the edges of description. Sad? Worldly? Godlike, even? I don’t know. But I am intrigued, and I am ravenous for anyone who can still intrigue me.

View attachment 326507 View attachment 326508

I am experienced enough to know that even if you look good, swiping and hoping means nothing on an app like that. And for reference, I am mostly pleased with how I look at this point: I was still waiting on facial fat grafts and was frauding with a bit of makeup in the meantime, but I had racked up a stack of triple-digit likes from average and below girls already.

This girl, however, is different. She will require a special touch to yield the response I desire – and I sense it will be worth it.

I get to work on finding out everything about her, convinced I’ll unearth something I can use that will be guaranteed to catch her eye. I am skilled at this, as I bet many of us are, but I haven’t done it or needed to in a long time, and I feel somewhat subhuman soiling my hands with such a process. Regardless, it doesn’t seem to matter at first. Reverse image searches, social media, and the like all come up empty.

I think to try her handle instead. It’s a unique username, but not entirely so, and the search returns a few Instagram accounts, Facebook posts, etc. that make reference to it. I can quickly tell they’re not her and don’t bother investigating beyond the first few. I continue to tab through several pages of search results. Eventually, I spot a potential hit: a nearly identical username shows up in an archive of a clearweb proxy for an onion address. It’s a cached post from a darkweb message board.

The poster has written how they want to buy an unregistered gun and are asking for sources. Their own replies in the thread go on to provide a surprisingly naive number of details about their life. I cross-check what they’ve said with elements of the girl’s profile – her location, age, and linguistic style – and it really does sound like her.

I fire up Tor and revisit the message board. I find the account again and comb through the rest of this person’s posts. They discuss intimate involvement in things like credit card fraud, PayPal scams, and fraudulent bank transfers. I digest everything, hearing the wheels in my own head turning. I mull it over for a minute, then decide: I have what I need, and I cannot help but laugh.

There is theoretically a small risk with what I am about to do, especially since she may have a gun and my personal information and pictures are on the app, but the worst probable result is that I am wrong about her identity and simply get blocked or ignored.

I compose a message carefully written to catch her attention in an unignorable way: I lay out, in all caps at the top of the message, a list of every crime she had elsewhere admitted to committing. “There’s no point in denying it, so let’s skip that part,” I go on to write. I then tell her I could go to the police about what’s she done, but she seems interesting and I would genuinely rather meet her. Finally, I add that if she doesn’t believe that I would pursue this with the authorities, she should think again, because apparently I was already willing to go so far as to dig up dirt on someone I didn’t even know, so there’s no telling how much further I’d take things. Autismmax.me, indeed.

I send the message and wait. Realistically speaking, there’s an extremely low chance that’d she even see my message, much less respond to it, so I’ve likely built this up a lot more in my head than it it’s worth.

Three days pass. Then I hear back from her.

Her reply is two lines long:
She says she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
And she asks where I would like to meet.

I’m in disbelief but I don’t say anything to betray it. After a little back and forth, we agree to meet that weekend at a coffee shop near her, in this giant indoor marketplace with lots of vendors and foot traffic. She lives in a city an hour’s drive away from me, but I needed a location where she couldn’t get away with putting a bullet in my head too easily, in case that’s what I was walking into. I also figured I had kind of blackmailed her, so the least I could do was go to her instead of making her come to me.



The day comes and I arrive early at the coffee shop. I grab a chair at the intersection of four different ways to enter the seating area so she can see me no matter which way she comes in. I wait. Our agreed meeting time passes with no indication that she’s arrived. Soon, she is 5, 10, 15 minutes late. I decide to message her on OKC when she messages me first.

Her message tells me to go outside, to the street. I have to walk around a few times since it’s my first time in the area, but I find where she’s talking about. There’s a car idling at the curb. I walk toward it but keep my distance. No, I’m not low inhib, I just don’t want to get fucking shot. I tilt my head down to try to peer through the passenger window, and it rolls down.

It’s her.

“Hi there,” I say from like 10 feet away.
“Hello,” she says.

“Are… you coming in, or what?” I ask.
She asks me in turn if I can just get in her car.

“Are you kidding? Fuck no,” I laugh. This shit is ridiculous, and part of me starts to regret this harebrained plan.
I tell her to park her fucking car and come inside.

I go back to wait in the coffee shop. A few minutes later, she comes over to my table and sits down.

She’s 5’7” and looks pretty much like her pictures. She is quite thin, almost noticeably so. Nose has an unusual bump, which you can see, but something about it makes me appreciate her, as perfection can randomly send me into a rage. Her eyes are stunning. She’s got a grey t-shirt with a sort of micro-corduroy texture that I still remember, and black pants – there are no slutty vibes at all.

Also, no, she does not have big boobs.

She is on edge. I try to break the ice without explicitly apologizing for scaring her into coming. As we all know, unless you’ve just run over her puppy or something, never tell a woman you’re sorry. She tells me she thought I was the police, or that I wasn’t real.

I brush it off; she seemed smart enough, I say, to appreciate the amount and unique type of effort I put into getting her attention; average girls would run for the hills. She laughs softly and says “Mhm.” It seems to resonate with her.

I don’t know exactly what to do, so I decide to just proceed as though if everything about this situation were normal, and begin trying to get know her. I tell her a mix of things about myself and ask her whatever comes naturally to me. She isn't bothered by this, and I cannot explain it since I’ve only experienced this feeling two other times in my life, but within ten or so minutes, things simply flow between us. She opens up about astronomy, her coding projects, how she was orphaned, her love of baking, and how she plans to change the world. For my part, I am a rapt listener: she fascinates me, and intuitively, I just know things about her – what she means and where’s she coming from – and she feeds off of that. We sit at the table and pass the time for about an hour this way. The topics of the police, or her crimes, or how I got her to meet me never come up again.

After an hour, my butt is sore from sitting. I tell her, “Let’s walk around.” There are a lot of things to see in this marketplace, and I’ve never been. Interestingly to me, I normally don’t give a shit about this kind of stuff, but I don’t mind being there this time. I’ve so far also not felt inclined to turn on any intentional charm. I wonder why, and realize slowly that I think I’m genuinely enjoying her company; it’s bizarre that it would be in these circumstances, but I’m getting to be myself with someone for the first time in a long time.

We walk around and continue talking. Maybe half an hour in, I make some wisecrack about something at one of the shops. She laughs sweetly – she has a soft laugh that lilts up a note at the end – and reaches over to hold my hand. To be frank, I snap out of the moment for a split-second and am shocked, but then I relax and let it happen. She intertwines our fingers and loops her arm through mine, and doesn’t let go the rest of the afternoon. Again, I cannot explain how, but it feels natural, and it is a moment I will never forget.

I walk her back to her car when we’re done. My car’s parked in a different structure, and she offers to drive me back.

When we get to my car, she parks and just kind of stares straight ahead, not saying anything.
For all my boldness in orchestrating this, I don’t know how to end this blackmail-turned-date, so I sit there too.

“Well,” I begin. She leans in and starts making out with me.

I’ve learned to suspend my surprise by now. She’s also a very good kisser, or perhaps it’s that we’re very in sync while kissing. Some people you’re not compatible with, but she was a good balance of everything; assertive, but giving too.

When we finish, she puts her hand on my leg and lowers her head a bit toward my crotch, looking up at me.
“Can I?” she says. For anyone I’m about to lose: I assure you, I’m not making this up.

This is much more than I was prepared for, and I decline. I actually don’t like normal blowjobs, where I’m just sitting there passively; I need to be actively fucking someone’s throat to be interested in it.

“But,” I venture, “maybe we can pick things up next weekend?”

She kisses me again and says OK.

I collect myself for a moment. “I have to tell you,” I say, “I didn’t expect anything like this to happen.”

She laughs and says “Well, I did think you’re insane, but you’re also really hot.”



The following Saturday, I text her first thing when I wake up. I have thought about her all week.

“Hey”
“Hey”
“Want to come over”
“Yeah I’ll see you around 10:30”
“K”

It was a thing of beauty to me how little need be said between us so early in knowing each other.

I drive an hour again to meet her and I spend the day at her apartment. It’s perfect. A little messy in a cute way. Lots of books, clothes, and functional things strewn about. None of that crap average girls have, like pillows embroidered with “Live, Laugh, Love.” There is also lots of sunlight.

We talk and I help her make brownies (not special brownies; I don’t fucking do drugs.) I’m not a fan of sweets, but she’s gone to the effort to make them from scratch, and she claims to be good at baking. I have a few and she isn’t lying. Because my lower jaw is still numb from surgery, I miss some chocolate smeared on my chin. “Aww,” she laughs, and wipes it, and something about it just then is surreal to me. Yes, I of course never imagined this would come from threatening to report a cybercriminal to the police, but part of me also never thought I would have an experience like this altogether – I thought it would just be hookups with girls I felt contempt for forever.

When we finish eating, she takes me to her bedroom.
I’ll skip the details as I’m sure everyone’s sick of hearing about my sex life.
The one thing I will say though is this:

I’ll always remember lying in her bed after we had finished, an arm draped over her, the sun filtering down on us through the trees outside her window. She takes my hand and playfully tries to get up – she uses cash everywhere (she withdraws thousands a week) and has to go to the bank before they close. I pull her back down and tell her I just want us to stay here. She laughs and finally yanks me, grumbling but unable to hide my smile, out of bed. She slips on nothing but an oversized sweater and shoes and says “Come on!” with a wave as she leaves the room. I sit on the edge of her bad and watch as she goes. Something about the whole moment just stuck with me. I see now that I didn’t want it to end. I was happy. And though I didn’t know it yet, I was in love with her.

That began a trend of seeing her every weekend, and then, weekdays too.
Before I knew it, we had been dating for 8 months. Those were the happiest months of my life.



The last time I saw her, we went for a walk through the hills overlooking the city where she lived. We reached a great vista after a bit of a hike and stopped to take in the view.

She gazed out at the city the whole time we were up there, almost like I wasn’t there. She was talkative in bursts, and then wouldn’t say anything for a while. She spoke about random things, seemingly as the ideas came to her, as if she were thinking aloud. Some of the things she said were about me; what specifically she said, though it was nothing of great significance, I would like to keep to myself, as those words are among the final memories I have of her.

We spent two hours up there, and she was shivering before long. We were dressed warm, but it was nearly dusk, and she always got cold easily. It was actually kind of cute because she always tried to talk and behave normally through her teeth chattering. I suggested a few times that we get going before it got much colder – and truth be told, I was getting a little restless – but she kept saying “Just a little while longer,” so eventually I let it go.

When I could wait no longer, I made up an excuse and told her I had to be home by a certain time and needed to get home. “OK,” she said a couple of times. “OK.” We got up from the bench we were on and made the trek back to her car. I distinctly remember her not taking my hand on the long walk down.

She drove us back to her apartment, where I had parked. During the drive, she smiled.
She had one hand on the wheel and was back to holding my hand super tightly with the other.

When we got back to her place, I kissed her goodbye for a few minutes.
Then I got out and waved to her as I walked to my car.



The next day, though I didn't know it at the time, she killed herself.

I found out after the fact, and with some difficulty. I didn’t text her for a few days following our last meeting. When I did, several days passed without a response. I called as well and it went to voicemail. I figured at first that she might have gone overseas: she traveled a lot and would use a different SIM, and it had happened once before. That time, I had got a hold of her by email, so I tried that this time as well.

A few days of radio silence turned into a month. She never responded to my email, so I drove to her apartment and knocked on her door. No one responded, and though she had asked me to move in with her a couple of times over the months, I didn't have a key. The neighboring tenants were no help, and as I stated before, she was an orphan, so she had no family to speak of. I didn’t know what else to do, so I waited the whole day there in front of her door. No one ever came in or out.

I didn’t sleep much during those weeks, and on my face I think it took a permanent toll. I spent all my time cycling through all the possibilities in my mind: did she get hurt? Did some of this shady business she was involved in come back to bite her? And I feel bad now for having considered it, but did she simply just ghost me? I became frenzied trying to figure out what had happened.

Desperation eventually brought me back to her darkweb activity. I pulled up the old message board where she had posted before, hopeful for any clues. I knew she had mentioned something about a gun when I first found her, and I wondered if that had anything to do with this.

It turns out that it did. She had made several posts elaborating on the one I stumbled upon 8 months prior – the one in which she had been asking how to purchase an unregistered gun. These later posts detailed her desire to use that gun to kill herself. I read with pain how many responses urged her not to do it. They told her to think of and lean on her loved ones. They told her the future would be worth it. But she ignored them, and had posted about her intent to go through with it as recently as 20 days before I last saw her.

I requested a death certificate as soon as I could to confirm my suspicions, but really, I already knew the truth.
And when it arrived in the mail, and I held it in my hands, whatever closure it brought could do nothing to ease one feeling:
The sickening pain I felt when I realized that I never told her that I loved her.

There are many lessons to be learned from this, but to keep it relevant and end on a lighter note:

You can be insane, but if you’re hot, that’s all that matters.

@Amnesia @Vidyacoper @AleksVs @forwardgrowth @Speedy @ht-normie-ascending @diggbicc @Norwooder @karbo @Patient A @HumidVent @ScramFranklin @Hopelessmofoker @Ethnicshit @kilgrave @JizzFarmer @laske.7 @baruch @middayshowers @Darkstrand @didntreadlol @Swescension @Moneymaxxed @kms_currycell @nastynas @Slayerullah @Got the hunter eyes @GigaTyroneOrDeath @LayDownAndCope @PrisonMike @ProjectAscension @WhatToDo @EternalLearner @BigBoy @sloopnoob

Established sense of dread from the beginning...don't know many who have mastered this. Do you write for a living?

Sounds as if she was involved in an organization or society (darkweb, shady dealings, withdrawing thousands, etc). Not that she didn't commit suicide, but that there was something looming overhead to drive her to that conclusion.

Probably just remembering the end of Casino Royale, though.

 

[laske.7]

I will preface this story by saying up-front:
This one does not end well for me.

Almost two years ago, I had a profile on OKCupid. Yes, I know – if Tinder and Bumble have devolved into cesspools, then OKC is a radioactive waste dump, but that’s what I was doing, so just go with it.

The pickings on that app are slim, but even among the lookers, the worst part is that it’s a desert of homogeneity. You know what I mean: landwhales who don’t know what “curvy” means, and cardboard cutouts too braindead to speak to anything besides how much they like dogs, food, and The Office. A wasteland.

My eyes have glazed over one morning when I'm on the app and I nearly swipe left on a profile. I stop and scroll through it. She’s pretty – not perfectly so – but different. She’s used a handle instead of her first name, and she’s written a few short sentences about things like Byzantine fault tolerance, the Library of Alexandria, and how she’s going to change the world. I look at her pictures again. There is a quality of intelligence in her eyes that eludes the edges of description. Sad? Worldly? Godlike, even? I don’t know. But I am intrigued, and I am ravenous for anyone who can still intrigue me.

View attachment 326507 View attachment 326508

I am experienced enough to know that even if you look good, swiping and hoping means nothing on an app like that. And for reference, I am mostly pleased with how I look at this point: I was still waiting on facial fat grafts and was frauding with a bit of makeup in the meantime, but I had racked up a stack of triple-digit likes from average and below girls already.

This girl, however, is different. She will require a special touch to yield the response I desire – and I sense it will be worth it.

I get to work on finding out everything about her, convinced I’ll unearth something I can use that will be guaranteed to catch her eye. I am skilled at this, as I bet many of us are, but I haven’t done it or needed to in a long time, and I feel somewhat subhuman soiling my hands with such a task. Regardless, it doesn’t seem to matter at first. Reverse image searches, social media, and the like all come up empty.

I think to try her handle instead. It’s a unique username, but not entirely so, and the search returns a few Instagram accounts, Facebook posts, etc. that make reference to it. I can quickly tell they’re not her and don’t bother investigating beyond the first few. I continue to tab through several pages of search results. Eventually, I spot a potential hit: a nearly identical username shows up in an archive of a clearweb proxy for an onion address. It’s a cached post from a darkweb message board.

The poster has written how they want to buy an unregistered gun and are asking for sources. Their own replies in the thread go on to provide a surprisingly naive number of details about their life. I cross-check what they’ve said with elements of the girl’s profile – her location, age, and linguistic style – and it really does sound like her.

I fire up Tor and revisit the message board. I find the account again and comb through the rest of this person’s posts. They discuss intimate involvement in things like credit card fraud, PayPal scams, and fraudulent bank transfers. I digest everything, hearing the wheels in my own head turning. I mull it over for a minute, then decide: I have what I need, and I cannot help but laugh.

There is theoretically a small risk with what I am about to do, especially since she may have a gun and my personal information and pictures are on the app, but the worst probable result is that I am wrong about her identity and simply get blocked or ignored.

I compose a message carefully written to catch her attention in an unignorable way: I lay out, in all caps at the top of the message, a list of every crime she had elsewhere admitted to committing. “There’s no point in denying it, so let’s skip that part,” I go on to write. I then tell her I could go to the police about what’s she done, but she seems interesting and I would genuinely rather meet her. Finally, I add that if she doesn’t believe that I would pursue this with the authorities, she should think again, because apparently I was already willing to go so far as to dig up dirt on someone I didn’t even know, so there’s no telling how much further I’d take things. Autismmax.me, indeed.

I send the message and wait. Realistically speaking, there’s an extremely low chance that’d she even see my message, much less respond to it, so I’ve likely built this up a lot more in my head than it it’s worth.

Three days pass. Then I hear back from her.

Her reply is two lines long:
She says she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
And she asks where I would like to meet.

I’m in disbelief but I don’t say anything to betray it. After a little back and forth, we agree to meet that weekend at a coffee shop near her, in this giant indoor marketplace with lots of vendors and foot traffic. She lives in a city an hour’s drive away from me, but I needed a location where she couldn’t get away with putting a bullet in my head too easily, in case that’s what I was walking into. I also figured I had kind of blackmailed her, so the least I could do was go to her instead of making her come to me.



The day comes and I arrive early at the coffee shop. I grab a chair at the intersection of four different ways to enter the seating area so she can see me no matter which way she comes in. I wait. Our agreed meeting time passes with no indication that she’s arrived. Soon, she is 5, 10, 15 minutes late. I decide to message her on OKC when she messages me first.

Her message tells me to go outside, to the street. I have to walk around a few times since it’s my first time in the area, but I find where she’s talking about. There’s a car idling at the curb. I walk toward it but keep my distance. No, I’m not low inhib, I just don’t want to get fucking shot. I tilt my head down to try to peer through the passenger window, and it rolls down.

It’s her.

“Hi there,” I say from like 10 feet away.
“Hello,” she says.

“Are… you coming in, or what?” I ask.
She asks me in turn if I can just get in her car.

“Are you kidding? Fuck no,” I laugh. This shit is ridiculous, and part of me starts to regret this harebrained plan.
I tell her to park her fucking car and come inside.

I go back to wait in the coffee shop. A few minutes later, she comes over to my table and sits down.

She’s 5’7” and looks pretty much like her pictures. She is quite thin, almost noticeably so. Nose has an unusual bump, which you can see, but something about it makes me appreciate her, as perfection can randomly send me into a rage. Her eyes are stunning. She’s got a grey t-shirt with a sort of micro-corduroy texture that I still remember, and black pants – there are no slutty vibes at all.

Also, no, she does not have big boobs.

She is on edge. I try to break the ice without explicitly apologizing for scaring her into coming. As we all know, unless you’ve just run over her puppy or something, never tell a woman you’re sorry. She tells me she thought I was the police, or that I wasn’t real.

I brush it off; she seemed smart enough, I say, to appreciate the amount and unique type of effort I put into getting her attention; average girls would run for the hills. She laughs softly and says “Mhm.” It seems to resonate with her.

I don’t know exactly what to do, so I decide to just proceed as though if everything about this situation were normal, and begin trying to get to know her. I tell her a mix of things about myself and ask her whatever comes naturally to me. She isn't bothered by this, and I cannot explain it since I’ve only experienced this feeling two other times in my life, but within ten or so minutes, things simply flow between us. She opens up about astronomy, her coding projects, how she was orphaned, her love of baking, and how she plans to change the world. For my part, I am a rapt listener: she fascinates me, and intuitively, I just know things about her – what she means and where’s she coming from – and she feeds off of that. We sit at the table and pass the time for about an hour this way. The topics of the police, or her crimes, or how I got her to meet me never come up again.

After an hour, my butt is sore from sitting. I tell her, “Let’s walk around.” There are a lot of things to see in this marketplace, and I’ve never been. Interestingly to me, I normally don’t give a shit about this kind of stuff, but I don’t mind being there this time. I’ve so far also not felt inclined to turn on any intentional charm. I wonder why, and realize slowly that I think I’m genuinely enjoying her company; it’s bizarre that it would be in these circumstances, but I’m getting to be myself with someone for the first time in a long time.

We walk around and continue talking. Maybe half an hour in, I make some wisecrack about something at one of the shops. She laughs sweetly – she has a soft laugh that lilts up a note at the end – and reaches over to hold my hand. To be frank, I snap out of the moment for a split-second and am shocked, but then I relax and let it happen. She intertwines our fingers and loops her arm through mine, and doesn’t let go the rest of the afternoon. Again, I cannot explain how, but it feels natural, and it is a moment I will never forget.

I walk her back to her car when we’re done. My car’s parked in a different structure, and she offers to drive me back.

When we get to my car, she parks and just kind of stares straight ahead, not saying anything.
For all my boldness in orchestrating this, I don’t know how to end this blackmail-turned-date, so I sit there too.

“Well,” I begin. She leans in and starts making out with me.

I’ve learned to suspend my surprise by now. She’s also a very good kisser, or perhaps it’s that we’re very in sync while kissing. Some people you’re not compatible with, but she was a good balance of everything; assertive, but giving too.

When we finish, she puts her hand on my leg and lowers her head a bit toward my crotch, looking up at me.
“Can I?” she says. For anyone I’m about to lose: I assure you, I’m not making this up.

This is much more than I was prepared for, and I decline. I actually don’t like normal blowjobs, where I’m just sitting there passively; I need to be actively fucking someone’s throat to be interested in it.

“But,” I venture, “maybe we can pick things up next weekend?”

She kisses me again and says OK.

I collect myself for a moment. “I have to tell you,” I say, “I didn’t expect anything like this to happen.”

She laughs and says “Well, I did think you’re insane, but you’re also really hot.”



The following Saturday, I text her first thing when I wake up. I have thought about her all week.

“Hey”
“Hey”
“Want to come over”
“Yeah I’ll see you around 10:30”
“K”

It was a thing of beauty to me how little need be said between us so early in knowing each other.

I drive an hour again to meet her and I spend the day at her apartment. It’s perfect. A little messy in a cute way. Lots of books, clothes, and functional things strewn about. None of that crap average girls have, like pillows embroidered with “Live, Laugh, Love.” There is also lots of sunlight.

We talk and I help her make brownies (not special brownies; I don’t fucking do drugs.) I’m not a fan of sweets, but she’s gone to the effort to make them from scratch, and she claims to be good at baking. I have a few and she isn’t lying. Because my lower jaw is still numb from surgery, I miss some chocolate smeared on my chin. “Aww,” she laughs, and wipes it, and something about it just then is surreal to me. Yes, I of course never imagined this would come from threatening to report a cybercriminal to the police, but part of me also never thought I would have an experience like this altogether – I thought it would just be hookups with girls I felt contempt for forever.

When we finish eating, she takes me to her bedroom.
I’ll skip the details as I’m sure everyone’s sick of hearing about my sex life.
The one thing I will say though is this:

I’ll always remember lying in her bed after we had finished, an arm draped over her, the sun filtering down on us through the trees outside her window. She takes my hand and playfully tries to get up – she uses cash everywhere (she withdraws thousands a week) and has to go to the bank before they close. I pull her back down and tell her I just want us to stay here. She laughs and finally yanks me, grumbling but unable to hide my smile, out of bed. She slips on nothing but an oversized sweater and shoes and says “Come on!” with a wave as she leaves the room. I sit on the edge of her bed and watch as she goes. Something about the whole moment just stuck with me. I see now that I didn’t want it to end. I was happy. And though I didn’t know it yet, I was in love with her.

That began a trend of seeing her every weekend, and then, weekdays too.
Before I knew it, we had been dating for 8 months. Those were the happiest months of my life.



The last time I saw her, we went for a walk through the hills overlooking the city where she lived. We reached a great vista after a bit of a hike and stopped to take in the view.

She gazed out at the city the whole time we were up there, almost like I wasn’t there. She was talkative in bursts, and then wouldn’t say anything for a while. She spoke about random things, seemingly as the ideas came to her, as if she were thinking aloud. Some of the things she said were about me; what specifically she said, though it was nothing of great significance, I would like to keep to myself, as those words are among the final memories I have of her.

We spent two hours up there, and she was shivering before long. We were dressed warm, but it was nearly dusk, and she always got cold easily. It was actually kind of cute because she always tried to talk and behave normally through her teeth chattering. I suggested a few times that we get going before it got much colder – and truth be told, I was getting a little restless – but she kept saying “Just a little while longer,” so eventually I let it go.

When I could wait no longer, I made up an excuse and told her I had to be home by a certain time and needed to get home. “OK,” she said a couple of times. “OK.” We got up from the bench we were on and made the trek back to her car. I distinctly remember her not taking my hand on the long walk down.

She drove us back to her apartment, where I had parked. During the drive, she smiled.
She had one hand on the wheel and was back to holding my hand super tightly with the other.

When we got back to her place, I kissed her goodbye for a few minutes.
Then I got out and waved to her as I walked to my car.



The next day, though I didn't know it at the time, she killed herself.

I found out after the fact, and with some difficulty. I didn’t text her for a few days following our last meeting. When I did, several days passed without a response. I called as well and it went to voicemail. I figured at first that she might have gone overseas: she traveled a lot and would use a different SIM, and it had happened once before. That time, I had got a hold of her by email, so I tried that this time as well.

A few days of radio silence turned into a month. She never responded to my email, so I drove to her apartment and knocked on her door. No one responded, and though she had asked me to move in with her a couple of times over the months, I didn't have a key. The neighboring tenants were no help, and as I stated before, she was an orphan, so she had no family to speak of. I didn’t know what else to do, so I waited the whole day there in front of her door. No one ever came in or out.

I didn’t sleep much during those weeks, and on my face I think it took a permanent toll. I spent all my time cycling through all the possibilities in my mind: did she get hurt? Did some of this shady business she was involved in come back to bite her? And I feel bad now for having considered it, but did she simply just ghost me? I became frenzied trying to figure out what had happened.

Desperation eventually brought me back to her darkweb activity. I pulled up the old message board where she had posted before, hopeful for any clues. I knew she had mentioned something about a gun when I first found her, and I wondered if that had anything to do with this.

It turns out that it did. She had made several posts elaborating on the one I stumbled upon 8 months prior – the one in which she had been asking how to purchase an unregistered gun. These later posts detailed her desire to use that gun to kill herself. I read with pain how many responses urged her not to do it. They told her to think of and lean on her loved ones. They told her the future would be worth it. But she ignored them, and had posted about her intent to go through with it as recently as 20 days before I last saw her.

I requested a death certificate as soon as I could to confirm my suspicions, but really, I already knew the truth.
And when it arrived in the mail, and I held it in my hands, whatever closure it brought could do nothing to ease one feeling:
The sickening pain I felt when I realized that I never told her that I loved her.

There are many lessons to be learned from this, but to keep it relevant and end on a lighter note:

You can be insane, but if you’re hot, that’s all that matters.

@Amnesia @Vidyacoper @AleksVs @forwardgrowth @Speedy @ht-normie-ascending @diggbicc @Norwooder @karbo @Patient A @HumidVent @ScramFranklin @Hopelessmofoker @Ethnicshit @kilgrave @JizzFarmer @laske.7 @baruch @middayshowers @Darkstrand @didntreadlol @Swescension @Moneymaxxed @kms_currycell @nastynas @Slayerullah @Got the hunter eyes @GigaTyroneOrDeath @LayDownAndCope @PrisonMike @ProjectAscension @WhatToDo @EternalLearner @BigBoy @sloopnoob @Slayerino

for fuck sake, damn

 

[Vidyacoper]

I will preface this story by saying up-front:
This one does not end well for me.

Almost two years ago, I had a profile on OKCupid. Yes, I know – if Tinder and Bumble have devolved into cesspools, then OKC is a radioactive waste dump, but that’s what I was doing, so just go with it.

The pickings on that app are slim, but even among the lookers, the worst part is that it’s a desert of homogeneity. You know what I mean: landwhales who don’t know what “curvy” means, and cardboard cutouts too braindead to speak to anything besides how much they like dogs, food, and The Office. A wasteland.

My eyes have glazed over one morning when I'm on the app and I nearly swipe left on a profile. I stop and scroll through it. She’s pretty – not perfectly so – but different. She’s used a handle instead of her first name, and she’s written a few short sentences about things like Byzantine fault tolerance, the Library of Alexandria, and how she’s going to change the world. I look at her pictures again. There is a quality of intelligence in her eyes that eludes the edges of description. Sad? Worldly? Godlike, even? I don’t know. But I am intrigued, and I am ravenous for anyone who can still intrigue me.

View attachment 326507 View attachment 326508

I am experienced enough to know that even if you look good, swiping and hoping means nothing on an app like that. And for reference, I am mostly pleased with how I look at this point: I was still waiting on facial fat grafts and was frauding with a bit of makeup in the meantime, but I had racked up a stack of triple-digit likes from average and below girls already.

This girl, however, is different. She will require a special touch to yield the response I desire – and I sense it will be worth it.

I get to work on finding out everything about her, convinced I’ll unearth something I can use that will be guaranteed to catch her eye. I am skilled at this, as I bet many of us are, but I haven’t done it or needed to in a long time, and I feel somewhat subhuman soiling my hands with such a task. Regardless, it doesn’t seem to matter at first. Reverse image searches, social media, and the like all come up empty.

I think to try her handle instead. It’s a unique username, but not entirely so, and the search returns a few Instagram accounts, Facebook posts, etc. that make reference to it. I can quickly tell they’re not her and don’t bother investigating beyond the first few. I continue to tab through several pages of search results. Eventually, I spot a potential hit: a nearly identical username shows up in an archive of a clearweb proxy for an onion address. It’s a cached post from a darkweb message board.

The poster has written how they want to buy an unregistered gun and are asking for sources. Their own replies in the thread go on to provide a surprisingly naive number of details about their life. I cross-check what they’ve said with elements of the girl’s profile – her location, age, and linguistic style – and it really does sound like her.

I fire up Tor and revisit the message board. I find the account again and comb through the rest of this person’s posts. They discuss intimate involvement in things like credit card fraud, PayPal scams, and fraudulent bank transfers. I digest everything, hearing the wheels in my own head turning. I mull it over for a minute, then decide: I have what I need, and I cannot help but laugh.

There is theoretically a small risk with what I am about to do, especially since she may have a gun and my personal information and pictures are on the app, but the worst probable result is that I am wrong about her identity and simply get blocked or ignored.

I compose a message carefully written to catch her attention in an unignorable way: I lay out, in all caps at the top of the message, a list of every crime she had elsewhere admitted to committing. “There’s no point in denying it, so let’s skip that part,” I go on to write. I then tell her I could go to the police about what’s she done, but she seems interesting and I would genuinely rather meet her. Finally, I add that if she doesn’t believe that I would pursue this with the authorities, she should think again, because apparently I was already willing to go so far as to dig up dirt on someone I didn’t even know, so there’s no telling how much further I’d take things. Autismmax.me, indeed.

I send the message and wait. Realistically speaking, there’s an extremely low chance that’d she even see my message, much less respond to it, so I’ve likely built this up a lot more in my head than it it’s worth.

Three days pass. Then I hear back from her.

Her reply is two lines long:
She says she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
And she asks where I would like to meet.

I’m in disbelief but I don’t say anything to betray it. After a little back and forth, we agree to meet that weekend at a coffee shop near her, in this giant indoor marketplace with lots of vendors and foot traffic. She lives in a city an hour’s drive away from me, but I needed a location where she couldn’t get away with putting a bullet in my head too easily, in case that’s what I was walking into. I also figured I had kind of blackmailed her, so the least I could do was go to her instead of making her come to me.



The day comes and I arrive early at the coffee shop. I grab a chair at the intersection of four different ways to enter the seating area so she can see me no matter which way she comes in. I wait. Our agreed meeting time passes with no indication that she’s arrived. Soon, she is 5, 10, 15 minutes late. I decide to message her on OKC when she messages me first.

Her message tells me to go outside, to the street. I have to walk around a few times since it’s my first time in the area, but I find where she’s talking about. There’s a car idling at the curb. I walk toward it but keep my distance. No, I’m not low inhib, I just don’t want to get fucking shot. I tilt my head down to try to peer through the passenger window, and it rolls down.

It’s her.

“Hi there,” I say from like 10 feet away.
“Hello,” she says.

“Are… you coming in, or what?” I ask.
She asks me in turn if I can just get in her car.

“Are you kidding? Fuck no,” I laugh. This shit is ridiculous, and part of me starts to regret this harebrained plan.
I tell her to park her fucking car and come inside.

I go back to wait in the coffee shop. A few minutes later, she comes over to my table and sits down.

She’s 5’7” and looks pretty much like her pictures. She is quite thin, almost noticeably so. Nose has an unusual bump, which you can see, but something about it makes me appreciate her, as perfection can randomly send me into a rage. Her eyes are stunning. She’s got a grey t-shirt with a sort of micro-corduroy texture that I still remember, and black pants – there are no slutty vibes at all.

Also, no, she does not have big boobs.

She is on edge. I try to break the ice without explicitly apologizing for scaring her into coming. As we all know, unless you’ve just run over her puppy or something, never tell a woman you’re sorry. She tells me she thought I was the police, or that I wasn’t real.

I brush it off; she seemed smart enough, I say, to appreciate the amount and unique type of effort I put into getting her attention; average girls would run for the hills. She laughs softly and says “Mhm.” It seems to resonate with her.

I don’t know exactly what to do, so I decide to just proceed as though if everything about this situation were normal, and begin trying to get to know her. I tell her a mix of things about myself and ask her whatever comes naturally to me. She isn't bothered by this, and I cannot explain it since I’ve only experienced this feeling two other times in my life, but within ten or so minutes, things simply flow between us. She opens up about astronomy, her coding projects, how she was orphaned, her love of baking, and how she plans to change the world. For my part, I am a rapt listener: she fascinates me, and intuitively, I just know things about her – what she means and where’s she coming from – and she feeds off of that. We sit at the table and pass the time for about an hour this way. The topics of the police, or her crimes, or how I got her to meet me never come up again.

After an hour, my butt is sore from sitting. I tell her, “Let’s walk around.” There are a lot of things to see in this marketplace, and I’ve never been. Interestingly to me, I normally don’t give a shit about this kind of stuff, but I don’t mind being there this time. I’ve so far also not felt inclined to turn on any intentional charm. I wonder why, and realize slowly that I think I’m genuinely enjoying her company; it’s bizarre that it would be in these circumstances, but I’m getting to be myself with someone for the first time in a long time.

We walk around and continue talking. Maybe half an hour in, I make some wisecrack about something at one of the shops. She laughs sweetly – she has a soft laugh that lilts up a note at the end – and reaches over to hold my hand. To be frank, I snap out of the moment for a split-second and am shocked, but then I relax and let it happen. She intertwines our fingers and loops her arm through mine, and doesn’t let go the rest of the afternoon. Again, I cannot explain how, but it feels natural, and it is a moment I will never forget.

I walk her back to her car when we’re done. My car’s parked in a different structure, and she offers to drive me back.

When we get to my car, she parks and just kind of stares straight ahead, not saying anything.
For all my boldness in orchestrating this, I don’t know how to end this blackmail-turned-date, so I sit there too.

“Well,” I begin. She leans in and starts making out with me.

I’ve learned to suspend my surprise by now. She’s also a very good kisser, or perhaps it’s that we’re very in sync while kissing. Some people you’re not compatible with, but she was a good balance of everything; assertive, but giving too.

When we finish, she puts her hand on my leg and lowers her head a bit toward my crotch, looking up at me.
“Can I?” she says. For anyone I’m about to lose: I assure you, I’m not making this up.

This is much more than I was prepared for, and I decline. I actually don’t like normal blowjobs, where I’m just sitting there passively; I need to be actively fucking someone’s throat to be interested in it.

“But,” I venture, “maybe we can pick things up next weekend?”

She kisses me again and says OK.

I collect myself for a moment. “I have to tell you,” I say, “I didn’t expect anything like this to happen.”

She laughs and says “Well, I did think you’re insane, but you’re also really hot.”



The following Saturday, I text her first thing when I wake up. I have thought about her all week.

“Hey”
“Hey”
“Want to come over”
“Yeah I’ll see you around 10:30”
“K”

It was a thing of beauty to me how little need be said between us so early in knowing each other.

I drive an hour again to meet her and I spend the day at her apartment. It’s perfect. A little messy in a cute way. Lots of books, clothes, and functional things strewn about. None of that crap average girls have, like pillows embroidered with “Live, Laugh, Love.” There is also lots of sunlight.

We talk and I help her make brownies (not special brownies; I don’t fucking do drugs.) I’m not a fan of sweets, but she’s gone to the effort to make them from scratch, and she claims to be good at baking. I have a few and she isn’t lying. Because my lower jaw is still numb from surgery, I miss some chocolate smeared on my chin. “Aww,” she laughs, and wipes it, and something about it just then is surreal to me. Yes, I of course never imagined this would come from threatening to report a cybercriminal to the police, but part of me also never thought I would have an experience like this altogether – I thought it would just be hookups with girls I felt contempt for forever.

When we finish eating, she takes me to her bedroom.
I’ll skip the details as I’m sure everyone’s sick of hearing about my sex life.
The one thing I will say though is this:

I’ll always remember lying in her bed after we had finished, an arm draped over her, the sun filtering down on us through the trees outside her window. She takes my hand and playfully tries to get up – she uses cash everywhere (she withdraws thousands a week) and has to go to the bank before they close. I pull her back down and tell her I just want us to stay here. She laughs and finally yanks me, grumbling but unable to hide my smile, out of bed. She slips on nothing but an oversized sweater and shoes and says “Come on!” with a wave as she leaves the room. I sit on the edge of her bed and watch as she goes. Something about the whole moment just stuck with me. I see now that I didn’t want it to end. I was happy. And though I didn’t know it yet, I was in love with her.

That began a trend of seeing her every weekend, and then, weekdays too.
Before I knew it, we had been dating for 8 months. Those were the happiest months of my life.



The last time I saw her, we went for a walk through the hills overlooking the city where she lived. We reached a great vista after a bit of a hike and stopped to take in the view.

She gazed out at the city the whole time we were up there, almost like I wasn’t there. She was talkative in bursts, and then wouldn’t say anything for a while. She spoke about random things, seemingly as the ideas came to her, as if she were thinking aloud. Some of the things she said were about me; what specifically she said, though it was nothing of great significance, I would like to keep to myself, as those words are among the final memories I have of her.

We spent two hours up there, and she was shivering before long. We were dressed warm, but it was nearly dusk, and she always got cold easily. It was actually kind of cute because she always tried to talk and behave normally through her teeth chattering. I suggested a few times that we get going before it got much colder – and truth be told, I was getting a little restless – but she kept saying “Just a little while longer,” so eventually I let it go.

When I could wait no longer, I made up an excuse and told her I had to be home by a certain time and needed to get home. “OK,” she said a couple of times. “OK.” We got up from the bench we were on and made the trek back to her car. I distinctly remember her not taking my hand on the long walk down.

She drove us back to her apartment, where I had parked. During the drive, she smiled.
She had one hand on the wheel and was back to holding my hand super tightly with the other.

When we got back to her place, I kissed her goodbye for a few minutes.
Then I got out and waved to her as I walked to my car.



The next day, though I didn't know it at the time, she killed herself.

I found out after the fact, and with some difficulty. I didn’t text her for a few days following our last meeting. When I did, several days passed without a response. I called as well and it went to voicemail. I figured at first that she might have gone overseas: she traveled a lot and would use a different SIM, and it had happened once before. That time, I had got a hold of her by email, so I tried that this time as well.

A few days of radio silence turned into a month. She never responded to my email, so I drove to her apartment and knocked on her door. No one responded, and though she had asked me to move in with her a couple of times over the months, I didn't have a key. The neighboring tenants were no help, and as I stated before, she was an orphan, so she had no family to speak of. I didn’t know what else to do, so I waited the whole day there in front of her door. No one ever came in or out.

I didn’t sleep much during those weeks, and on my face I think it took a permanent toll. I spent all my time cycling through all the possibilities in my mind: did she get hurt? Did some of this shady business she was involved in come back to bite her? And I feel bad now for having considered it, but did she simply just ghost me? I became frenzied trying to figure out what had happened.

Desperation eventually brought me back to her darkweb activity. I pulled up the old message board where she had posted before, hopeful for any clues. I knew she had mentioned something about a gun when I first found her, and I wondered if that had anything to do with this.

It turns out that it did. She had made several posts elaborating on the one I stumbled upon 8 months prior – the one in which she had been asking how to purchase an unregistered gun. These later posts detailed her desire to use that gun to kill herself. I read with pain how many responses urged her not to do it. They told her to think of and lean on her loved ones. They told her the future would be worth it. But she ignored them, and had posted about her intent to go through with it as recently as 20 days before I last saw her.

I requested a death certificate as soon as I could to confirm my suspicions, but really, I already knew the truth.
And when it arrived in the mail, and I held it in my hands, whatever closure it brought could do nothing to ease one feeling:
The sickening pain I felt when I realized that I never told her that I loved her.

There are many lessons to be learned from this, but to keep it relevant and end on a lighter note:

You can be insane, but if you’re hot, that’s all that matters.

@Amnesia @Vidyacoper @AleksVs @forwardgrowth @Speedy @ht-normie-ascending @diggbicc @Norwooder @karbo @Patient A @HumidVent @ScramFranklin @Hopelessmofoker @Ethnicshit @kilgrave @JizzFarmer @laske.7 @baruch @middayshowers @Darkstrand @didntreadlol @Swescension @Moneymaxxed @kms_currycell @nastynas @Slayerullah @Got the hunter eyes @GigaTyroneOrDeath @LayDownAndCope @PrisonMike @ProjectAscension @WhatToDo @EternalLearner @BigBoy @sloopnoob @Slayerino

damn.. why am i crying

 

[WBC323]

Aww, that was so sad and cute, but hope you can find another girl for a story.

 

[SayNoToRotting]

None.

 

[Patient A]

I will preface this story by saying up-front:
This one does not end well for me.

Almost two years ago, I had a profile on OKCupid. Yes, I know – if Tinder and Bumble have devolved into cesspools, then OKC is a radioactive waste dump, but that’s what I was doing, so just go with it.

The pickings on that app are slim, but even among the lookers, the worst part is that it’s a desert of homogeneity. You know what I mean: landwhales who don’t know what “curvy” means, and cardboard cutouts too braindead to speak to anything besides how much they like dogs, food, and The Office. A wasteland.

My eyes have glazed over one morning when I'm on the app and I nearly swipe left on a profile. I stop and scroll through it. She’s pretty – not perfectly so – but different. She’s used a handle instead of her first name, and she’s written a few short sentences about things like Byzantine fault tolerance, the Library of Alexandria, and how she’s going to change the world. I look at her pictures again. There is a quality of intelligence in her eyes that eludes the edges of description. Sad? Worldly? Godlike, even? I don’t know. But I am intrigued, and I am ravenous for anyone who can still intrigue me.

View attachment 326507 View attachment 326508

I am experienced enough to know that even if you look good, swiping and hoping means nothing on an app like that. And for reference, I am mostly pleased with how I look at this point: I was still waiting on facial fat grafts and was frauding with a bit of makeup in the meantime, but I had racked up a stack of triple-digit likes from average and below girls already.

This girl, however, is different. She will require a special touch to yield the response I desire – and I sense it will be worth it.

I get to work on finding out everything about her, convinced I’ll unearth something I can use that will be guaranteed to catch her eye. I am skilled at this, as I bet many of us are, but I haven’t done it or needed to in a long time, and I feel somewhat subhuman soiling my hands with such a task. Regardless, it doesn’t seem to matter at first. Reverse image searches, social media, and the like all come up empty.

I think to try her handle instead. It’s a unique username, but not entirely so, and the search returns a few Instagram accounts, Facebook posts, etc. that make reference to it. I can quickly tell they’re not her and don’t bother investigating beyond the first few. I continue to tab through several pages of search results. Eventually, I spot a potential hit: a nearly identical username shows up in an archive of a clearweb proxy for an onion address. It’s a cached post from a darkweb message board.

The poster has written how they want to buy an unregistered gun and are asking for sources. Their own replies in the thread go on to provide a surprisingly naive number of details about their life. I cross-check what they’ve said with elements of the girl’s profile – her location, age, and linguistic style – and it really does sound like her.

I fire up Tor and revisit the message board. I find the account again and comb through the rest of this person’s posts. They discuss intimate involvement in things like credit card fraud, PayPal scams, and fraudulent bank transfers. I digest everything, hearing the wheels in my own head turning. I mull it over for a minute, then decide: I have what I need, and I cannot help but laugh.

There is theoretically a small risk with what I am about to do, especially since she may have a gun and my personal information and pictures are on the app, but the worst probable result is that I am wrong about her identity and simply get blocked or ignored.

I compose a message carefully written to catch her attention in an unignorable way: I lay out, in all caps at the top of the message, a list of every crime she had elsewhere admitted to committing. “There’s no point in denying it, so let’s skip that part,” I go on to write. I then tell her I could go to the police about what’s she done, but she seems interesting and I would genuinely rather meet her. Finally, I add that if she doesn’t believe that I would pursue this with the authorities, she should think again, because apparently I was already willing to go so far as to dig up dirt on someone I didn’t even know, so there’s no telling how much further I’d take things. Autismmax.me, indeed.

I send the message and wait. Realistically speaking, there’s an extremely low chance that’d she even see my message, much less respond to it, so I’ve likely built this up a lot more in my head than it it’s worth.

Three days pass. Then I hear back from her.

Her reply is two lines long:
She says she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
And she asks where I would like to meet.

I’m in disbelief but I don’t say anything to betray it. After a little back and forth, we agree to meet that weekend at a coffee shop near her, in this giant indoor marketplace with lots of vendors and foot traffic. She lives in a city an hour’s drive away from me, but I needed a location where she couldn’t get away with putting a bullet in my head too easily, in case that’s what I was walking into. I also figured I had kind of blackmailed her, so the least I could do was go to her instead of making her come to me.



The day comes and I arrive early at the coffee shop. I grab a chair at the intersection of four different ways to enter the seating area so she can see me no matter which way she comes in. I wait. Our agreed meeting time passes with no indication that she’s arrived. Soon, she is 5, 10, 15 minutes late. I decide to message her on OKC when she messages me first.

Her message tells me to go outside, to the street. I have to walk around a few times since it’s my first time in the area, but I find where she’s talking about. There’s a car idling at the curb. I walk toward it but keep my distance. No, I’m not low inhib, I just don’t want to get fucking shot. I tilt my head down to try to peer through the passenger window, and it rolls down.

It’s her.

“Hi there,” I say from like 10 feet away.
“Hello,” she says.

“Are… you coming in, or what?” I ask.
She asks me in turn if I can just get in her car.

“Are you kidding? Fuck no,” I laugh. This shit is ridiculous, and part of me starts to regret this harebrained plan.
I tell her to park her fucking car and come inside.

I go back to wait in the coffee shop. A few minutes later, she comes over to my table and sits down.

She’s 5’7” and looks pretty much like her pictures. She is quite thin, almost noticeably so. Nose has an unusual bump, which you can see, but something about it makes me appreciate her, as perfection can randomly send me into a rage. Her eyes are stunning. She’s got a grey t-shirt with a sort of micro-corduroy texture that I still remember, and black pants – there are no slutty vibes at all.

Also, no, she does not have big boobs.

She is on edge. I try to break the ice without explicitly apologizing for scaring her into coming. As we all know, unless you’ve just run over her puppy or something, never tell a woman you’re sorry. She tells me she thought I was the police, or that I wasn’t real.

I brush it off; she seemed smart enough, I say, to appreciate the amount and unique type of effort I put into getting her attention; average girls would run for the hills. She laughs softly and says “Mhm.” It seems to resonate with her.

I don’t know exactly what to do, so I decide to just proceed as though if everything about this situation were normal, and begin trying to get to know her. I tell her a mix of things about myself and ask her whatever comes naturally to me. She isn't bothered by this, and I cannot explain it since I’ve only experienced this feeling two other times in my life, but within ten or so minutes, things simply flow between us. She opens up about astronomy, her coding projects, how she was orphaned, her love of baking, and how she plans to change the world. For my part, I am a rapt listener: she fascinates me, and intuitively, I just know things about her – what she means and where’s she coming from – and she feeds off of that. We sit at the table and pass the time for about an hour this way. The topics of the police, or her crimes, or how I got her to meet me never come up again.

After an hour, my butt is sore from sitting. I tell her, “Let’s walk around.” There are a lot of things to see in this marketplace, and I’ve never been. Interestingly to me, I normally don’t give a shit about this kind of stuff, but I don’t mind being there this time. I’ve so far also not felt inclined to turn on any intentional charm. I wonder why, and realize slowly that I think I’m genuinely enjoying her company; it’s bizarre that it would be in these circumstances, but I’m getting to be myself with someone for the first time in a long time.

We walk around and continue talking. Maybe half an hour in, I make some wisecrack about something at one of the shops. She laughs sweetly – she has a soft laugh that lilts up a note at the end – and reaches over to hold my hand. To be frank, I snap out of the moment for a split-second and am shocked, but then I relax and let it happen. She intertwines our fingers and loops her arm through mine, and doesn’t let go the rest of the afternoon. Again, I cannot explain how, but it feels natural, and it is a moment I will never forget.

I walk her back to her car when we’re done. My car’s parked in a different structure, and she offers to drive me back.

When we get to my car, she parks and just kind of stares straight ahead, not saying anything.
For all my boldness in orchestrating this, I don’t know how to end this blackmail-turned-date, so I sit there too.

“Well,” I begin. She leans in and starts making out with me.

I’ve learned to suspend my surprise by now. She’s also a very good kisser, or perhaps it’s that we’re very in sync while kissing. Some people you’re not compatible with, but she was a good balance of everything; assertive, but giving too.

When we finish, she puts her hand on my leg and lowers her head a bit toward my crotch, looking up at me.
“Can I?” she says. For anyone I’m about to lose: I assure you, I’m not making this up.

This is much more than I was prepared for, and I decline. I actually don’t like normal blowjobs, where I’m just sitting there passively; I need to be actively fucking someone’s throat to be interested in it.

“But,” I venture, “maybe we can pick things up next weekend?”

She kisses me again and says OK.

I collect myself for a moment. “I have to tell you,” I say, “I didn’t expect anything like this to happen.”

She laughs and says “Well, I did think you’re insane, but you’re also really hot.”



The following Saturday, I text her first thing when I wake up. I have thought about her all week.

“Hey”
“Hey”
“Want to come over”
“Yeah I’ll see you around 10:30”
“K”

It was a thing of beauty to me how little need be said between us so early in knowing each other.

I drive an hour again to meet her and I spend the day at her apartment. It’s perfect. A little messy in a cute way. Lots of books, clothes, and functional things strewn about. None of that crap average girls have, like pillows embroidered with “Live, Laugh, Love.” There is also lots of sunlight.

We talk and I help her make brownies (not special brownies; I don’t fucking do drugs.) I’m not a fan of sweets, but she’s gone to the effort to make them from scratch, and she claims to be good at baking. I have a few and she isn’t lying. Because my lower jaw is still numb from surgery, I miss some chocolate smeared on my chin. “Aww,” she laughs, and wipes it, and something about it just then is surreal to me. Yes, I of course never imagined this would come from threatening to report a cybercriminal to the police, but part of me also never thought I would have an experience like this altogether – I thought it would just be hookups with girls I felt contempt for forever.

When we finish eating, she takes me to her bedroom.
I’ll skip the details as I’m sure everyone’s sick of hearing about my sex life.
The one thing I will say though is this:

I’ll always remember lying in her bed after we had finished, an arm draped over her, the sun filtering down on us through the trees outside her window. She takes my hand and playfully tries to get up – she uses cash everywhere (she withdraws thousands a week) and has to go to the bank before they close. I pull her back down and tell her I just want us to stay here. She laughs and finally yanks me, grumbling but unable to hide my smile, out of bed. She slips on nothing but an oversized sweater and shoes and says “Come on!” with a wave as she leaves the room. I sit on the edge of her bed and watch as she goes. Something about the whole moment just stuck with me. I see now that I didn’t want it to end. I was happy. And though I didn’t know it yet, I was in love with her.

That began a trend of seeing her every weekend, and then, weekdays too.
Before I knew it, we had been dating for 8 months. Those were the happiest months of my life.



The last time I saw her, we went for a walk through the hills overlooking the city where she lived. We reached a great vista after a bit of a hike and stopped to take in the view.

She gazed out at the city the whole time we were up there, almost like I wasn’t there. She was talkative in bursts, and then wouldn’t say anything for a while. She spoke about random things, seemingly as the ideas came to her, as if she were thinking aloud. Some of the things she said were about me; what specifically she said, though it was nothing of great significance, I would like to keep to myself, as those words are among the final memories I have of her.

We spent two hours up there, and she was shivering before long. We were dressed warm, but it was nearly dusk, and she always got cold easily. It was actually kind of cute because she always tried to talk and behave normally through her teeth chattering. I suggested a few times that we get going before it got much colder – and truth be told, I was getting a little restless – but she kept saying “Just a little while longer,” so eventually I let it go.

When I could wait no longer, I made up an excuse and told her I had to be home by a certain time and needed to get home. “OK,” she said a couple of times. “OK.” We got up from the bench we were on and made the trek back to her car. I distinctly remember her not taking my hand on the long walk down.

She drove us back to her apartment, where I had parked. During the drive, she smiled.
She had one hand on the wheel and was back to holding my hand super tightly with the other.

When we got back to her place, I kissed her goodbye for a few minutes.
Then I got out and waved to her as I walked to my car.



The next day, though I didn't know it at the time, she killed herself.

I found out after the fact, and with some difficulty. I didn’t text her for a few days following our last meeting. When I did, several days passed without a response. I called as well and it went to voicemail. I figured at first that she might have gone overseas: she traveled a lot and would use a different SIM, and it had happened once before. That time, I had got a hold of her by email, so I tried that this time as well.

A few days of radio silence turned into a month. She never responded to my email, so I drove to her apartment and knocked on her door. No one responded, and though she had asked me to move in with her a couple of times over the months, I didn't have a key. The neighboring tenants were no help, and as I stated before, she was an orphan, so she had no family to speak of. I didn’t know what else to do, so I waited the whole day there in front of her door. No one ever came in or out.

I didn’t sleep much during those weeks, and on my face I think it took a permanent toll. I spent all my time cycling through all the possibilities in my mind: did she get hurt? Did some of this shady business she was involved in come back to bite her? And I feel bad now for having considered it, but did she simply just ghost me? I became frenzied trying to figure out what had happened.

Desperation eventually brought me back to her darkweb activity. I pulled up the old message board where she had posted before, hopeful for any clues. I knew she had mentioned something about a gun when I first found her, and I wondered if that had anything to do with this.

It turns out that it did. She had made several posts elaborating on the one I stumbled upon 8 months prior – the one in which she had been asking how to purchase an unregistered gun. These later posts detailed her desire to use that gun to kill herself. I read with pain how many responses urged her not to do it. They told her to think of and lean on her loved ones. They told her the future would be worth it. But she ignored them, and had posted about her intent to go through with it as recently as 20 days before I last saw her.

I requested a death certificate as soon as I could to confirm my suspicions, but really, I already knew the truth.
And when it arrived in the mail, and I held it in my hands, whatever closure it brought could do nothing to ease one feeling:
The sickening pain I felt when I realized that I never told her that I loved her.

There are many lessons to be learned from this, but to keep it relevant and end on a lighter note:

You can be insane, but if you’re hot, that’s all that matters.

@Amnesia @Vidyacoper @AleksVs @forwardgrowth @Speedy @ht-normie-ascending @diggbicc @Norwooder @karbo @Patient A @HumidVent @ScramFranklin @Hopelessmofoker @Ethnicshit @kilgrave @JizzFarmer @laske.7 @baruch @middayshowers @Darkstrand @didntreadlol @Swescension @Moneymaxxed @kms_currycell @nastynas @Slayerullah @Got the hunter eyes @GigaTyroneOrDeath @LayDownAndCope @PrisonMike @ProjectAscension @WhatToDo @EternalLearner @BigBoy @sloopnoob @Slayerino

At least something happened in your life.

 

[karbo]

I will preface this story by saying up-front:
This one does not end well for me.

Almost two years ago, I had a profile on OKCupid. Yes, I know – if Tinder and Bumble have devolved into cesspools, then OKC is a radioactive waste dump, but that’s what I was doing, so just go with it.

The pickings on that app are slim, but even among the lookers, the worst part is that it’s a desert of homogeneity. You know what I mean: landwhales who don’t know what “curvy” means, and cardboard cutouts too braindead to speak to anything besides how much they like dogs, food, and The Office. A wasteland.

My eyes have glazed over one morning when I'm on the app and I nearly swipe left on a profile. I stop and scroll through it. She’s pretty – not perfectly so – but different. She’s used a handle instead of her first name, and she’s written a few short sentences about things like Byzantine fault tolerance, the Library of Alexandria, and how she’s going to change the world. I look at her pictures again. There is a quality of intelligence in her eyes that eludes the edges of description. Sad? Worldly? Godlike, even? I don’t know. But I am intrigued, and I am ravenous for anyone who can still intrigue me.

View attachment 326507 View attachment 326508

I am experienced enough to know that even if you look good, swiping and hoping means nothing on an app like that. And for reference, I am mostly pleased with how I look at this point: I was still waiting on facial fat grafts and was frauding with a bit of makeup in the meantime, but I had racked up a stack of triple-digit likes from average and below girls already.

This girl, however, is different. She will require a special touch to yield the response I desire – and I sense it will be worth it.

I get to work on finding out everything about her, convinced I’ll unearth something I can use that will be guaranteed to catch her eye. I am skilled at this, as I bet many of us are, but I haven’t done it or needed to in a long time, and I feel somewhat subhuman soiling my hands with such a task. Regardless, it doesn’t seem to matter at first. Reverse image searches, social media, and the like all come up empty.

I think to try her handle instead. It’s a unique username, but not entirely so, and the search returns a few Instagram accounts, Facebook posts, etc. that make reference to it. I can quickly tell they’re not her and don’t bother investigating beyond the first few. I continue to tab through several pages of search results. Eventually, I spot a potential hit: a nearly identical username shows up in an archive of a clearweb proxy for an onion address. It’s a cached post from a darkweb message board.

The poster has written how they want to buy an unregistered gun and are asking for sources. Their own replies in the thread go on to provide a surprisingly naive number of details about their life. I cross-check what they’ve said with elements of the girl’s profile – her location, age, and linguistic style – and it really does sound like her.

I fire up Tor and revisit the message board. I find the account again and comb through the rest of this person’s posts. They discuss intimate involvement in things like credit card fraud, PayPal scams, and fraudulent bank transfers. I digest everything, hearing the wheels in my own head turning. I mull it over for a minute, then decide: I have what I need, and I cannot help but laugh.

There is theoretically a small risk with what I am about to do, especially since she may have a gun and my personal information and pictures are on the app, but the worst probable result is that I am wrong about her identity and simply get blocked or ignored.

I compose a message carefully written to catch her attention in an unignorable way: I lay out, in all caps at the top of the message, a list of every crime she had elsewhere admitted to committing. “There’s no point in denying it, so let’s skip that part,” I go on to write. I then tell her I could go to the police about what’s she done, but she seems interesting and I would genuinely rather meet her. Finally, I add that if she doesn’t believe that I would pursue this with the authorities, she should think again, because apparently I was already willing to go so far as to dig up dirt on someone I didn’t even know, so there’s no telling how much further I’d take things. Autismmax.me, indeed.

I send the message and wait. Realistically speaking, there’s an extremely low chance that’d she even see my message, much less respond to it, so I’ve likely built this up a lot more in my head than it it’s worth.

Three days pass. Then I hear back from her.

Her reply is two lines long:
She says she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
And she asks where I would like to meet.

I’m in disbelief but I don’t say anything to betray it. After a little back and forth, we agree to meet that weekend at a coffee shop near her, in this giant indoor marketplace with lots of vendors and foot traffic. She lives in a city an hour’s drive away from me, but I needed a location where she couldn’t get away with putting a bullet in my head too easily, in case that’s what I was walking into. I also figured I had kind of blackmailed her, so the least I could do was go to her instead of making her come to me.



The day comes and I arrive early at the coffee shop. I grab a chair at the intersection of four different ways to enter the seating area so she can see me no matter which way she comes in. I wait. Our agreed meeting time passes with no indication that she’s arrived. Soon, she is 5, 10, 15 minutes late. I decide to message her on OKC when she messages me first.

Her message tells me to go outside, to the street. I have to walk around a few times since it’s my first time in the area, but I find where she’s talking about. There’s a car idling at the curb. I walk toward it but keep my distance. No, I’m not low inhib, I just don’t want to get fucking shot. I tilt my head down to try to peer through the passenger window, and it rolls down.

It’s her.

“Hi there,” I say from like 10 feet away.
“Hello,” she says.

“Are… you coming in, or what?” I ask.
She asks me in turn if I can just get in her car.

“Are you kidding? Fuck no,” I laugh. This shit is ridiculous, and part of me starts to regret this harebrained plan.
I tell her to park her fucking car and come inside.

I go back to wait in the coffee shop. A few minutes later, she comes over to my table and sits down.

She’s 5’7” and looks pretty much like her pictures. She is quite thin, almost noticeably so. Nose has an unusual bump, which you can see, but something about it makes me appreciate her, as perfection can randomly send me into a rage. Her eyes are stunning. She’s got a grey t-shirt with a sort of micro-corduroy texture that I still remember, and black pants – there are no slutty vibes at all.

Also, no, she does not have big boobs.

She is on edge. I try to break the ice without explicitly apologizing for scaring her into coming. As we all know, unless you’ve just run over her puppy or something, never tell a woman you’re sorry. She tells me she thought I was the police, or that I wasn’t real.

I brush it off; she seemed smart enough, I say, to appreciate the amount and unique type of effort I put into getting her attention; average girls would run for the hills. She laughs softly and says “Mhm.” It seems to resonate with her.

I don’t know exactly what to do, so I decide to just proceed as though if everything about this situation were normal, and begin trying to get to know her. I tell her a mix of things about myself and ask her whatever comes naturally to me. She isn't bothered by this, and I cannot explain it since I’ve only experienced this feeling two other times in my life, but within ten or so minutes, things simply flow between us. She opens up about astronomy, her coding projects, how she was orphaned, her love of baking, and how she plans to change the world. For my part, I am a rapt listener: she fascinates me, and intuitively, I just know things about her – what she means and where’s she coming from – and she feeds off of that. We sit at the table and pass the time for about an hour this way. The topics of the police, or her crimes, or how I got her to meet me never come up again.

After an hour, my butt is sore from sitting. I tell her, “Let’s walk around.” There are a lot of things to see in this marketplace, and I’ve never been. Interestingly to me, I normally don’t give a shit about this kind of stuff, but I don’t mind being there this time. I’ve so far also not felt inclined to turn on any intentional charm. I wonder why, and realize slowly that I think I’m genuinely enjoying her company; it’s bizarre that it would be in these circumstances, but I’m getting to be myself with someone for the first time in a long time.

We walk around and continue talking. Maybe half an hour in, I make some wisecrack about something at one of the shops. She laughs sweetly – she has a soft laugh that lilts up a note at the end – and reaches over to hold my hand. To be frank, I snap out of the moment for a split-second and am shocked, but then I relax and let it happen. She intertwines our fingers and loops her arm through mine, and doesn’t let go the rest of the afternoon. Again, I cannot explain how, but it feels natural, and it is a moment I will never forget.

I walk her back to her car when we’re done. My car’s parked in a different structure, and she offers to drive me back.

When we get to my car, she parks and just kind of stares straight ahead, not saying anything.
For all my boldness in orchestrating this, I don’t know how to end this blackmail-turned-date, so I sit there too.

“Well,” I begin. She leans in and starts making out with me.

I’ve learned to suspend my surprise by now. She’s also a very good kisser, or perhaps it’s that we’re very in sync while kissing. Some people you’re not compatible with, but she was a good balance of everything; assertive, but giving too.

When we finish, she puts her hand on my leg and lowers her head a bit toward my crotch, looking up at me.
“Can I?” she says. For anyone I’m about to lose: I assure you, I’m not making this up.

This is much more than I was prepared for, and I decline. I actually don’t like normal blowjobs, where I’m just sitting there passively; I need to be actively fucking someone’s throat to be interested in it.

“But,” I venture, “maybe we can pick things up next weekend?”

She kisses me again and says OK.

I collect myself for a moment. “I have to tell you,” I say, “I didn’t expect anything like this to happen.”

She laughs and says “Well, I did think you’re insane, but you’re also really hot.”



The following Saturday, I text her first thing when I wake up. I have thought about her all week.

“Hey”
“Hey”
“Want to come over”
“Yeah I’ll see you around 10:30”
“K”

It was a thing of beauty to me how little need be said between us so early in knowing each other.

I drive an hour again to meet her and I spend the day at her apartment. It’s perfect. A little messy in a cute way. Lots of books, clothes, and functional things strewn about. None of that crap average girls have, like pillows embroidered with “Live, Laugh, Love.” There is also lots of sunlight.

We talk and I help her make brownies (not special brownies; I don’t fucking do drugs.) I’m not a fan of sweets, but she’s gone to the effort to make them from scratch, and she claims to be good at baking. I have a few and she isn’t lying. Because my lower jaw is still numb from surgery, I miss some chocolate smeared on my chin. “Aww,” she laughs, and wipes it, and something about it just then is surreal to me. Yes, I of course never imagined this would come from threatening to report a cybercriminal to the police, but part of me also never thought I would have an experience like this altogether – I thought it would just be hookups with girls I felt contempt for forever.

When we finish eating, she takes me to her bedroom.
I’ll skip the details as I’m sure everyone’s sick of hearing about my sex life.
The one thing I will say though is this:

I’ll always remember lying in her bed after we had finished, an arm draped over her, the sun filtering down on us through the trees outside her window. She takes my hand and playfully tries to get up – she uses cash everywhere (she withdraws thousands a week) and has to go to the bank before they close. I pull her back down and tell her I just want us to stay here. She laughs and finally yanks me, grumbling but unable to hide my smile, out of bed. She slips on nothing but an oversized sweater and shoes and says “Come on!” with a wave as she leaves the room. I sit on the edge of her bed and watch as she goes. Something about the whole moment just stuck with me. I see now that I didn’t want it to end. I was happy. And though I didn’t know it yet, I was in love with her.

That began a trend of seeing her every weekend, and then, weekdays too.
Before I knew it, we had been dating for 8 months. Those were the happiest months of my life.



The last time I saw her, we went for a walk through the hills overlooking the city where she lived. We reached a great vista after a bit of a hike and stopped to take in the view.

She gazed out at the city the whole time we were up there, almost like I wasn’t there. She was talkative in bursts, and then wouldn’t say anything for a while. She spoke about random things, seemingly as the ideas came to her, as if she were thinking aloud. Some of the things she said were about me; what specifically she said, though it was nothing of great significance, I would like to keep to myself, as those words are among the final memories I have of her.

We spent two hours up there, and she was shivering before long. We were dressed warm, but it was nearly dusk, and she always got cold easily. It was actually kind of cute because she always tried to talk and behave normally through her teeth chattering. I suggested a few times that we get going before it got much colder – and truth be told, I was getting a little restless – but she kept saying “Just a little while longer,” so eventually I let it go.

When I could wait no longer, I made up an excuse and told her I had to be home by a certain time and needed to get home. “OK,” she said a couple of times. “OK.” We got up from the bench we were on and made the trek back to her car. I distinctly remember her not taking my hand on the long walk down.

She drove us back to her apartment, where I had parked. During the drive, she smiled.
She had one hand on the wheel and was back to holding my hand super tightly with the other.

When we got back to her place, I kissed her goodbye for a few minutes.
Then I got out and waved to her as I walked to my car.



The next day, though I didn't know it at the time, she killed herself.

I found out after the fact, and with some difficulty. I didn’t text her for a few days following our last meeting. When I did, several days passed without a response. I called as well and it went to voicemail. I figured at first that she might have gone overseas: she traveled a lot and would use a different SIM, and it had happened once before. That time, I had got a hold of her by email, so I tried that this time as well.

A few days of radio silence turned into a month. She never responded to my email, so I drove to her apartment and knocked on her door. No one responded, and though she had asked me to move in with her a couple of times over the months, I didn't have a key. The neighboring tenants were no help, and as I stated before, she was an orphan, so she had no family to speak of. I didn’t know what else to do, so I waited the whole day there in front of her door. No one ever came in or out.

I didn’t sleep much during those weeks, and on my face I think it took a permanent toll. I spent all my time cycling through all the possibilities in my mind: did she get hurt? Did some of this shady business she was involved in come back to bite her? And I feel bad now for having considered it, but did she simply just ghost me? I became frenzied trying to figure out what had happened.

Desperation eventually brought me back to her darkweb activity. I pulled up the old message board where she had posted before, hopeful for any clues. I knew she had mentioned something about a gun when I first found her, and I wondered if that had anything to do with this.

It turns out that it did. She had made several posts elaborating on the one I stumbled upon 8 months prior – the one in which she had been asking how to purchase an unregistered gun. These later posts detailed her desire to use that gun to kill herself. I read with pain how many responses urged her not to do it. They told her to think of and lean on her loved ones. They told her the future would be worth it. But she ignored them, and had posted about her intent to go through with it as recently as 20 days before I last saw her.

I requested a death certificate as soon as I could to confirm my suspicions, but really, I already knew the truth.
And when it arrived in the mail, and I held it in my hands, whatever closure it brought could do nothing to ease one feeling:
The sickening pain I felt when I realized that I never told her that I loved her.

There are many lessons to be learned from this, but to keep it relevant and end on a lighter note:

You can be insane, but if you’re hot, that’s all that matters.

@Amnesia @Vidyacoper @AleksVs @forwardgrowth @Speedy @ht-normie-ascending @diggbicc @Norwooder @karbo @Patient A @HumidVent @ScramFranklin @Hopelessmofoker @Ethnicshit @kilgrave @JizzFarmer @laske.7 @baruch @middayshowers @Darkstrand @didntreadlol @Swescension @Moneymaxxed @kms_currycell @nastynas @Slayerullah @Got the hunter eyes @GigaTyroneOrDeath @LayDownAndCope @PrisonMike @ProjectAscension @WhatToDo @EternalLearner @BigBoy @sloopnoob @Slayerino

good one bro. reminds me of old 4chan stories and r/nosleep

 

[reptiles]

No doubt it's a lifetime of events or cruel things people said that pushed you to begin soft looksmaxing.
But would like to know what experience or moment led you to pull the trigger on finally getting surgeries.

For me, it was an absolutely brutal mogging I experienced in my early twenties.

A buddy invited me out to a dive bar for a double date. He'd matched with a girl on Tinder and her friend.
Bars aren't really my scene but it sounded like fun enough, so I agreed to meet up with them.

I went into it without expectations. Back then, I was OK-looking, had had a few relationships and some hookups, but I cared about looks no more than the average guy. I grew up very poor, so money was more my focus. I had been out of college and working in finance for a few years and was making insane money for any age; based on that, I felt quite good about myself. So really I was looking forward to wasting some time that night and meeting someone new.

We got there before the girls and waited at the bar.
When they showed up, I panicked a little. My friend's match turned out to be a ginger, and something about gingers always seems... undercooked to me.
But then I saw her friend — dirty blonde, lightly tanned, ~5'5" with big tits in a low-cut top — and relief passed over me in an awesome wave.

View attachment 318235

Now in retrospect, of course, this girl wasn't higher than a 4 PSL.
Really all she had going for her was that she was white, not fat, and had a real pair of warlocks.
At the time though, that was enough, and I was totally down to fuck her lights out if it came to that.

We all sit down at the bar. My friend and his match actually hit it off, and remain engrossed in conversation the rest of the night.
My date, meanwhile, orders a beer and begins watching baseball up on the TV.
She hasn't even introduced herself to me yet, and I'm trying to figure out if she's autistic or just rude.
I make a few attempts at casual conversation, but all efforts are met with "uh-huhs" and dead-end answers.

I'm not terribly upset about this — actually, I found it funny at first, since I didn't really like people too much myself.
I also wasn't desperate to get laid, so I didn't really give a fuck about her one way or another.
But something about her attitude starts to irritate me.

I try asking her a few different kinds of questions. It doesn't go anywhere.
Eventually, she just stops responding entirely.

Out of boredom, I start grabbing massive fistfuls of peanuts and shelling them open on the bar.
I flick them around and some hit her arm and her drink.
She doesn't even react and continues watching the game. I laugh to myself in disbelief.
I didn't really care what this chick's deal was at first, but now I'm getting pissed off.
I try to gauge the vibe she's giving off.

It wasn't that she was offended that someone like me was trying to engage her, like how some snooty girls can be.
Actually, that would have been better, because then I would have at least commanded a sliver of her attention.
But there was clearly none of that.

No... it was that I had been disqualified and rendered invisible from the moment she set eyes on me.
For her, I didn't even deserve to have my existence acknowledged — not even as a potential sexual partner, but just as a human being.
She was, in other words, absolutely, palpably indifferent to me.

I didn't conclude this in such explicit terms in my head when it was happening, but I had an intuitive sense of it.
With that, I decide to write her off and try to find something to do.
I call over the bartender from down the bar so I can at least have someone to talk to.
As he comes over and into view, I see he's a decent-looking guy. 6'1" or so, tan Hispanic, dark hair in an undercut before it was popular, and a few tattoos.
Basically what girls with average tastes might consider "hot."

He starts talking to me. He's a likable and interesting guy, as bartenders are wont to be, and he's cool to talk to.
As soon as he comes over, my date speaks up. She becomes a completely different person.
She's suddenly very talkative, bubbly — I can't believe the change in her demeanor.

He's a solid bro and tries to keep me included in the flow of conversation, but she's essentially talking to just him.
She flirts like mad the entire time and he reciprocates to some degree, but I suspect he's being polite/doing the whole bartender shtick to get a good tip.
I'm stunned by her blatant disregard for the glaring disparity in how she's treating each of us.

He leaves and comes back multiples to check on us. Each time my date keeps flirting and asking him very personal questions. At some point I give up trying to work my way into the conversation. I have realized I am powerless to do anything, and before this man behind the bar, I am NOT EVEN HUMAN to her. In between him stopping by, she adjusts her bra right in front of me to make sure her boobs are pushed up and mashed together to the max. Again, I am floored: he makes her a bitch in heat with a smile and a wink; I cannot even obtain eye contact. We are on completely different planes of reality.

This goes on for about an hour. Over the course of it, I gradually internalize what's unfolding before me. By the end, I am sitting at the bar defeated, a pathetic heap playing quietly with peanuts. She finally gets up to talk to her friend, my buddy's Tinder match. It looks like they're planning to head out at last. My friend and his match hug, while my date walks right past me toward the exit; I do not exist. Right before leaving, she leans over the bar and writes something down on a napkin. She hands it with a big grin to the bartender and runs out.

I shuffle over to the bartender, mouth agape. I am still processing the events of the past hour and a half. He hands me the napkin; she's given him her number. He laughs and says "You can keep it man, I'm not interested." This guy... he had so many options, he wouldn't even bother fucking her. Not only that, but I am not jealous of him, and this enrages me. It would have been easier to bear if he were a douchebag and went for it. Realizing this, I am on the verge of furious collapse.

That's when I looked at the napkin. When I saw it, my entire being was condensed to a single point of dumbfounded, helpless, seething frustration.
I have kept it to this day:

View attachment 318234

It was then that I realized that my genetics and my upbringing had failed me.
That without a course correction, I was destined for the wastebin of society.
That as I was, I was not enough.

TLDR: Slut with big tits ignores me on date, throws herself at bartender; I get mogged to Alpha Centauri and resolve to get surgery.

1st day out of the womb

 

[Got the hunter eyes]

I will preface this story by saying up-front:
This one does not end well for me.

Almost two years ago, I had a profile on OKCupid. Yes, I know – if Tinder and Bumble have devolved into cesspools, then OKC is a radioactive waste dump, but that’s what I was doing, so just go with it.

The pickings on that app are slim, but even among the lookers, the worst part is that it’s a desert of homogeneity. You know what I mean: landwhales who don’t know what “curvy” means, and cardboard cutouts too braindead to speak to anything besides how much they like dogs, food, and The Office. A wasteland.

My eyes have glazed over one morning when I'm on the app and I nearly swipe left on a profile. I stop and scroll through it. She’s pretty – not perfectly so – but different. She’s used a handle instead of her first name, and she’s written a few short sentences about things like Byzantine fault tolerance, the Library of Alexandria, and how she’s going to change the world. I look at her pictures again. There is a quality of intelligence in her eyes that eludes the edges of description. Sad? Worldly? Godlike, even? I don’t know. But I am intrigued, and I am ravenous for anyone who can still intrigue me.

View attachment 326507 View attachment 326508

I am experienced enough to know that even if you look good, swiping and hoping means nothing on an app like that. And for reference, I am mostly pleased with how I look at this point: I was still waiting on facial fat grafts and was frauding with a bit of makeup in the meantime, but I had racked up a stack of triple-digit likes from average and below girls already.

This girl, however, is different. She will require a special touch to yield the response I desire – and I sense it will be worth it.

I get to work on finding out everything about her, convinced I’ll unearth something I can use that will be guaranteed to catch her eye. I am skilled at this, as I bet many of us are, but I haven’t done it or needed to in a long time, and I feel somewhat subhuman soiling my hands with such a task. Regardless, it doesn’t seem to matter at first. Reverse image searches, social media, and the like all come up empty.

I think to try her handle instead. It’s a unique username, but not entirely so, and the search returns a few Instagram accounts, Facebook posts, etc. that make reference to it. I can quickly tell they’re not her and don’t bother investigating beyond the first few. I continue to tab through several pages of search results. Eventually, I spot a potential hit: a nearly identical username shows up in an archive of a clearweb proxy for an onion address. It’s a cached post from a darkweb message board.

The poster has written how they want to buy an unregistered gun and are asking for sources. Their own replies in the thread go on to provide a surprisingly naive number of details about their life. I cross-check what they’ve said with elements of the girl’s profile – her location, age, and linguistic style – and it really does sound like her.

I fire up Tor and revisit the message board. I find the account again and comb through the rest of this person’s posts. They discuss intimate involvement in things like credit card fraud, PayPal scams, and fraudulent bank transfers. I digest everything, hearing the wheels in my own head turning. I mull it over for a minute, then decide: I have what I need, and I cannot help but laugh.

There is theoretically a small risk with what I am about to do, especially since she may have a gun and my personal information and pictures are on the app, but the worst probable result is that I am wrong about her identity and simply get blocked or ignored.

I compose a message carefully written to catch her attention in an unignorable way: I lay out, in all caps at the top of the message, a list of every crime she had elsewhere admitted to committing. “There’s no point in denying it, so let’s skip that part,” I go on to write. I then tell her I could go to the police about what’s she done, but she seems interesting and I would genuinely rather meet her. Finally, I add that if she doesn’t believe that I would pursue this with the authorities, she should think again, because apparently I was already willing to go so far as to dig up dirt on someone I didn’t even know, so there’s no telling how much further I’d take things. Autismmax.me, indeed.

I send the message and wait. Realistically speaking, there’s an extremely low chance that’d she even see my message, much less respond to it, so I’ve likely built this up a lot more in my head than it it’s worth.

Three days pass. Then I hear back from her.

Her reply is two lines long:
She says she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
And she asks where I would like to meet.

I’m in disbelief but I don’t say anything to betray it. After a little back and forth, we agree to meet that weekend at a coffee shop near her, in this giant indoor marketplace with lots of vendors and foot traffic. She lives in a city an hour’s drive away from me, but I needed a location where she couldn’t get away with putting a bullet in my head too easily, in case that’s what I was walking into. I also figured I had kind of blackmailed her, so the least I could do was go to her instead of making her come to me.



The day comes and I arrive early at the coffee shop. I grab a chair at the intersection of four different ways to enter the seating area so she can see me no matter which way she comes in. I wait. Our agreed meeting time passes with no indication that she’s arrived. Soon, she is 5, 10, 15 minutes late. I decide to message her on OKC when she messages me first.

Her message tells me to go outside, to the street. I have to walk around a few times since it’s my first time in the area, but I find where she’s talking about. There’s a car idling at the curb. I walk toward it but keep my distance. No, I’m not low inhib, I just don’t want to get fucking shot. I tilt my head down to try to peer through the passenger window, and it rolls down.

It’s her.

“Hi there,” I say from like 10 feet away.
“Hello,” she says.

“Are… you coming in, or what?” I ask.
She asks me in turn if I can just get in her car.

“Are you kidding? Fuck no,” I laugh. This shit is ridiculous, and part of me starts to regret this harebrained plan.
I tell her to park her fucking car and come inside.

I go back to wait in the coffee shop. A few minutes later, she comes over to my table and sits down.

She’s 5’7” and looks pretty much like her pictures. She is quite thin, almost noticeably so. Nose has an unusual bump, which you can see, but something about it makes me appreciate her, as perfection can randomly send me into a rage. Her eyes are stunning. She’s got a grey t-shirt with a sort of micro-corduroy texture that I still remember, and black pants – there are no slutty vibes at all.

Also, no, she does not have big boobs.

She is on edge. I try to break the ice without explicitly apologizing for scaring her into coming. As we all know, unless you’ve just run over her puppy or something, never tell a woman you’re sorry. She tells me she thought I was the police, or that I wasn’t real.

I brush it off; she seemed smart enough, I say, to appreciate the amount and unique type of effort I put into getting her attention; average girls would run for the hills. She laughs softly and says “Mhm.” It seems to resonate with her.

I don’t know exactly what to do, so I decide to just proceed as though if everything about this situation were normal, and begin trying to get to know her. I tell her a mix of things about myself and ask her whatever comes naturally to me. She isn't bothered by this, and I cannot explain it since I’ve only experienced this feeling two other times in my life, but within ten or so minutes, things simply flow between us. She opens up about astronomy, her coding projects, how she was orphaned, her love of baking, and how she plans to change the world. For my part, I am a rapt listener: she fascinates me, and intuitively, I just know things about her – what she means and where’s she coming from – and she feeds off of that. We sit at the table and pass the time for about an hour this way. The topics of the police, or her crimes, or how I got her to meet me never come up again.

After an hour, my butt is sore from sitting. I tell her, “Let’s walk around.” There are a lot of things to see in this marketplace, and I’ve never been. Interestingly to me, I normally don’t give a shit about this kind of stuff, but I don’t mind being there this time. I’ve so far also not felt inclined to turn on any intentional charm. I wonder why, and realize slowly that I think I’m genuinely enjoying her company; it’s bizarre that it would be in these circumstances, but I’m getting to be myself with someone for the first time in a long time.

We walk around and continue talking. Maybe half an hour in, I make some wisecrack about something at one of the shops. She laughs sweetly – she has a soft laugh that lilts up a note at the end – and reaches over to hold my hand. To be frank, I snap out of the moment for a split-second and am shocked, but then I relax and let it happen. She intertwines our fingers and loops her arm through mine, and doesn’t let go the rest of the afternoon. Again, I cannot explain how, but it feels natural, and it is a moment I will never forget.

I walk her back to her car when we’re done. My car’s parked in a different structure, and she offers to drive me back.

When we get to my car, she parks and just kind of stares straight ahead, not saying anything.
For all my boldness in orchestrating this, I don’t know how to end this blackmail-turned-date, so I sit there too.

“Well,” I begin. She leans in and starts making out with me.

I’ve learned to suspend my surprise by now. She’s also a very good kisser, or perhaps it’s that we’re very in sync while kissing. Some people you’re not compatible with, but she was a good balance of everything; assertive, but giving too.

When we finish, she puts her hand on my leg and lowers her head a bit toward my crotch, looking up at me.
“Can I?” she says. For anyone I’m about to lose: I assure you, I’m not making this up.

This is much more than I was prepared for, and I decline. I actually don’t like normal blowjobs, where I’m just sitting there passively; I need to be actively fucking someone’s throat to be interested in it.

“But,” I venture, “maybe we can pick things up next weekend?”

She kisses me again and says OK.

I collect myself for a moment. “I have to tell you,” I say, “I didn’t expect anything like this to happen.”

She laughs and says “Well, I did think you’re insane, but you’re also really hot.”



The following Saturday, I text her first thing when I wake up. I have thought about her all week.

“Hey”
“Hey”
“Want to come over”
“Yeah I’ll see you around 10:30”
“K”

It was a thing of beauty to me how little need be said between us so early in knowing each other.

I drive an hour again to meet her and I spend the day at her apartment. It’s perfect. A little messy in a cute way. Lots of books, clothes, and functional things strewn about. None of that crap average girls have, like pillows embroidered with “Live, Laugh, Love.” There is also lots of sunlight.

We talk and I help her make brownies (not special brownies; I don’t fucking do drugs.) I’m not a fan of sweets, but she’s gone to the effort to make them from scratch, and she claims to be good at baking. I have a few and she isn’t lying. Because my lower jaw is still numb from surgery, I miss some chocolate smeared on my chin. “Aww,” she laughs, and wipes it, and something about it just then is surreal to me. Yes, I of course never imagined this would come from threatening to report a cybercriminal to the police, but part of me also never thought I would have an experience like this altogether – I thought it would just be hookups with girls I felt contempt for forever.

When we finish eating, she takes me to her bedroom.
I’ll skip the details as I’m sure everyone’s sick of hearing about my sex life.
The one thing I will say though is this:

I’ll always remember lying in her bed after we had finished, an arm draped over her, the sun filtering down on us through the trees outside her window. She takes my hand and playfully tries to get up – she uses cash everywhere (she withdraws thousands a week) and has to go to the bank before they close. I pull her back down and tell her I just want us to stay here. She laughs and finally yanks me, grumbling but unable to hide my smile, out of bed. She slips on nothing but an oversized sweater and shoes and says “Come on!” with a wave as she leaves the room. I sit on the edge of her bed and watch as she goes. Something about the whole moment just stuck with me. I see now that I didn’t want it to end. I was happy. And though I didn’t know it yet, I was in love with her.

That began a trend of seeing her every weekend, and then, weekdays too.
Before I knew it, we had been dating for 8 months. Those were the happiest months of my life.



The last time I saw her, we went for a walk through the hills overlooking the city where she lived. We reached a great vista after a bit of a hike and stopped to take in the view.

She gazed out at the city the whole time we were up there, almost like I wasn’t there. She was talkative in bursts, and then wouldn’t say anything for a while. She spoke about random things, seemingly as the ideas came to her, as if she were thinking aloud. Some of the things she said were about me; what specifically she said, though it was nothing of great significance, I would like to keep to myself, as those words are among the final memories I have of her.

We spent two hours up there, and she was shivering before long. We were dressed warm, but it was nearly dusk, and she always got cold easily. It was actually kind of cute because she always tried to talk and behave normally through her teeth chattering. I suggested a few times that we get going before it got much colder – and truth be told, I was getting a little restless – but she kept saying “Just a little while longer,” so eventually I let it go.

When I could wait no longer, I made up an excuse and told her I had to be home by a certain time and needed to get home. “OK,” she said a couple of times. “OK.” We got up from the bench we were on and made the trek back to her car. I distinctly remember her not taking my hand on the long walk down.

She drove us back to her apartment, where I had parked. During the drive, she smiled.
She had one hand on the wheel and was back to holding my hand super tightly with the other.

When we got back to her place, I kissed her goodbye for a few minutes.
Then I got out and waved to her as I walked to my car.



The next day, though I didn't know it at the time, she killed herself.

I found out after the fact, and with some difficulty. I didn’t text her for a few days following our last meeting. When I did, several days passed without a response. I called as well and it went to voicemail. I figured at first that she might have gone overseas: she traveled a lot and would use a different SIM, and it had happened once before. That time, I had got a hold of her by email, so I tried that this time as well.

A few days of radio silence turned into a month. She never responded to my email, so I drove to her apartment and knocked on her door. No one responded, and though she had asked me to move in with her a couple of times over the months, I didn't have a key. The neighboring tenants were no help, and as I stated before, she was an orphan, so she had no family to speak of. I didn’t know what else to do, so I waited the whole day there in front of her door. No one ever came in or out.

I didn’t sleep much during those weeks, and on my face I think it took a permanent toll. I spent all my time cycling through all the possibilities in my mind: did she get hurt? Did some of this shady business she was involved in come back to bite her? And I feel bad now for having considered it, but did she simply just ghost me? I became frenzied trying to figure out what had happened.

Desperation eventually brought me back to her darkweb activity. I pulled up the old message board where she had posted before, hopeful for any clues. I knew she had mentioned something about a gun when I first found her, and I wondered if that had anything to do with this.

It turns out that it did. She had made several posts elaborating on the one I stumbled upon 8 months prior – the one in which she had been asking how to purchase an unregistered gun. These later posts detailed her desire to use that gun to kill herself. I read with pain how many responses urged her not to do it. They told her to think of and lean on her loved ones. They told her the future would be worth it. But she ignored them, and had posted about her intent to go through with it as recently as 20 days before I last saw her.

I requested a death certificate as soon as I could to confirm my suspicions, but really, I already knew the truth.
And when it arrived in the mail, and I held it in my hands, whatever closure it brought could do nothing to ease one feeling:
The sickening pain I felt when I realized that I never told her that I loved her.

There are many lessons to be learned from this, but to keep it relevant and end on a lighter note:

You can be insane, but if you’re hot, that’s all that matters.

@Amnesia @Vidyacoper @AleksVs @forwardgrowth @Speedy @ht-normie-ascending @diggbicc @Norwooder @karbo @Patient A @HumidVent @ScramFranklin @Hopelessmofoker @Ethnicshit @kilgrave @JizzFarmer @laske.7 @baruch @middayshowers @Darkstrand @didntreadlol @Swescension @Moneymaxxed @kms_currycell @nastynas @Slayerullah @Got the hunter eyes @GigaTyroneOrDeath @LayDownAndCope @PrisonMike @ProjectAscension @WhatToDo @EternalLearner @BigBoy @sloopnoob @Slayerino

Thanks man i really like your stories ill read it as soon as I've got a bit of time

 

[sloopnoob]

I will preface this story by saying up-front:
This one does not end well for me.

Almost two years ago, I had a profile on OKCupid. Yes, I know – if Tinder and Bumble have devolved into cesspools, then OKC is a radioactive waste dump, but that’s what I was doing, so just go with it.

The pickings on that app are slim, but even among the lookers, the worst part is that it’s a desert of homogeneity. You know what I mean: landwhales who don’t know what “curvy” means, and cardboard cutouts too braindead to speak to anything besides how much they like dogs, food, and The Office. A wasteland.

My eyes have glazed over one morning when I'm on the app and I nearly swipe left on a profile. I stop and scroll through it. She’s pretty – not perfectly so – but different. She’s used a handle instead of her first name, and she’s written a few short sentences about things like Byzantine fault tolerance, the Library of Alexandria, and how she’s going to change the world. I look at her pictures again. There is a quality of intelligence in her eyes that eludes the edges of description. Sad? Worldly? Godlike, even? I don’t know. But I am intrigued, and I am ravenous for anyone who can still intrigue me.

View attachment 326507 View attachment 326508

I am experienced enough to know that even if you look good, swiping and hoping means nothing on an app like that. And for reference, I am mostly pleased with how I look at this point: I was still waiting on facial fat grafts and was frauding with a bit of makeup in the meantime, but I had racked up a stack of triple-digit likes from average and below girls already.

This girl, however, is different. She will require a special touch to yield the response I desire – and I sense it will be worth it.

I get to work on finding out everything about her, convinced I’ll unearth something I can use that will be guaranteed to catch her eye. I am skilled at this, as I bet many of us are, but I haven’t done it or needed to in a long time, and I feel somewhat subhuman soiling my hands with such a task. Regardless, it doesn’t seem to matter at first. Reverse image searches, social media, and the like all come up empty.

I think to try her handle instead. It’s a unique username, but not entirely so, and the search returns a few Instagram accounts, Facebook posts, etc. that make reference to it. I can quickly tell they’re not her and don’t bother investigating beyond the first few. I continue to tab through several pages of search results. Eventually, I spot a potential hit: a nearly identical username shows up in an archive of a clearweb proxy for an onion address. It’s a cached post from a darkweb message board.

The poster has written how they want to buy an unregistered gun and are asking for sources. Their own replies in the thread go on to provide a surprisingly naive number of details about their life. I cross-check what they’ve said with elements of the girl’s profile – her location, age, and linguistic style – and it really does sound like her.

I fire up Tor and revisit the message board. I find the account again and comb through the rest of this person’s posts. They discuss intimate involvement in things like credit card fraud, PayPal scams, and fraudulent bank transfers. I digest everything, hearing the wheels in my own head turning. I mull it over for a minute, then decide: I have what I need, and I cannot help but laugh.

There is theoretically a small risk with what I am about to do, especially since she may have a gun and my personal information and pictures are on the app, but the worst probable result is that I am wrong about her identity and simply get blocked or ignored.

I compose a message carefully written to catch her attention in an unignorable way: I lay out, in all caps at the top of the message, a list of every crime she had elsewhere admitted to committing. “There’s no point in denying it, so let’s skip that part,” I go on to write. I then tell her I could go to the police about what’s she done, but she seems interesting and I would genuinely rather meet her. Finally, I add that if she doesn’t believe that I would pursue this with the authorities, she should think again, because apparently I was already willing to go so far as to dig up dirt on someone I didn’t even know, so there’s no telling how much further I’d take things. Autismmax.me, indeed.

I send the message and wait. Realistically speaking, there’s an extremely low chance that’d she even see my message, much less respond to it, so I’ve likely built this up a lot more in my head than it it’s worth.

Three days pass. Then I hear back from her.

Her reply is two lines long:
She says she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
And she asks where I would like to meet.

I’m in disbelief but I don’t say anything to betray it. After a little back and forth, we agree to meet that weekend at a coffee shop near her, in this giant indoor marketplace with lots of vendors and foot traffic. She lives in a city an hour’s drive away from me, but I needed a location where she couldn’t get away with putting a bullet in my head too easily, in case that’s what I was walking into. I also figured I had kind of blackmailed her, so the least I could do was go to her instead of making her come to me.



The day comes and I arrive early at the coffee shop. I grab a chair at the intersection of four different ways to enter the seating area so she can see me no matter which way she comes in. I wait. Our agreed meeting time passes with no indication that she’s arrived. Soon, she is 5, 10, 15 minutes late. I decide to message her on OKC when she messages me first.

Her message tells me to go outside, to the street. I have to walk around a few times since it’s my first time in the area, but I find where she’s talking about. There’s a car idling at the curb. I walk toward it but keep my distance. No, I’m not low inhib, I just don’t want to get fucking shot. I tilt my head down to try to peer through the passenger window, and it rolls down.

It’s her.

“Hi there,” I say from like 10 feet away.
“Hello,” she says.

“Are… you coming in, or what?” I ask.
She asks me in turn if I can just get in her car.

“Are you kidding? Fuck no,” I laugh. This shit is ridiculous, and part of me starts to regret this harebrained plan.
I tell her to park her fucking car and come inside.

I go back to wait in the coffee shop. A few minutes later, she comes over to my table and sits down.

She’s 5’7” and looks pretty much like her pictures. She is quite thin, almost noticeably so. Nose has an unusual bump, which you can see, but something about it makes me appreciate her, as perfection can randomly send me into a rage. Her eyes are stunning. She’s got a grey t-shirt with a sort of micro-corduroy texture that I still remember, and black pants – there are no slutty vibes at all.

Also, no, she does not have big boobs.

She is on edge. I try to break the ice without explicitly apologizing for scaring her into coming. As we all know, unless you’ve just run over her puppy or something, never tell a woman you’re sorry. She tells me she thought I was the police, or that I wasn’t real.

I brush it off; she seemed smart enough, I say, to appreciate the amount and unique type of effort I put into getting her attention; average girls would run for the hills. She laughs softly and says “Mhm.” It seems to resonate with her.

I don’t know exactly what to do, so I decide to just proceed as though if everything about this situation were normal, and begin trying to get to know her. I tell her a mix of things about myself and ask her whatever comes naturally to me. She isn't bothered by this, and I cannot explain it since I’ve only experienced this feeling two other times in my life, but within ten or so minutes, things simply flow between us. She opens up about astronomy, her coding projects, how she was orphaned, her love of baking, and how she plans to change the world. For my part, I am a rapt listener: she fascinates me, and intuitively, I just know things about her – what she means and where’s she coming from – and she feeds off of that. We sit at the table and pass the time for about an hour this way. The topics of the police, or her crimes, or how I got her to meet me never come up again.

After an hour, my butt is sore from sitting. I tell her, “Let’s walk around.” There are a lot of things to see in this marketplace, and I’ve never been. Interestingly to me, I normally don’t give a shit about this kind of stuff, but I don’t mind being there this time. I’ve so far also not felt inclined to turn on any intentional charm. I wonder why, and realize slowly that I think I’m genuinely enjoying her company; it’s bizarre that it would be in these circumstances, but I’m getting to be myself with someone for the first time in a long time.

We walk around and continue talking. Maybe half an hour in, I make some wisecrack about something at one of the shops. She laughs sweetly – she has a soft laugh that lilts up a note at the end – and reaches over to hold my hand. To be frank, I snap out of the moment for a split-second and am shocked, but then I relax and let it happen. She intertwines our fingers and loops her arm through mine, and doesn’t let go the rest of the afternoon. Again, I cannot explain how, but it feels natural, and it is a moment I will never forget.

I walk her back to her car when we’re done. My car’s parked in a different structure, and she offers to drive me back.

When we get to my car, she parks and just kind of stares straight ahead, not saying anything.
For all my boldness in orchestrating this, I don’t know how to end this blackmail-turned-date, so I sit there too.

“Well,” I begin. She leans in and starts making out with me.

I’ve learned to suspend my surprise by now. She’s also a very good kisser, or perhaps it’s that we’re very in sync while kissing. Some people you’re not compatible with, but she was a good balance of everything; assertive, but giving too.

When we finish, she puts her hand on my leg and lowers her head a bit toward my crotch, looking up at me.
“Can I?” she says. For anyone I’m about to lose: I assure you, I’m not making this up.

This is much more than I was prepared for, and I decline. I actually don’t like normal blowjobs, where I’m just sitting there passively; I need to be actively fucking someone’s throat to be interested in it.

“But,” I venture, “maybe we can pick things up next weekend?”

She kisses me again and says OK.

I collect myself for a moment. “I have to tell you,” I say, “I didn’t expect anything like this to happen.”

She laughs and says “Well, I did think you’re insane, but you’re also really hot.”



The following Saturday, I text her first thing when I wake up. I have thought about her all week.

“Hey”
“Hey”
“Want to come over”
“Yeah I’ll see you around 10:30”
“K”

It was a thing of beauty to me how little need be said between us so early in knowing each other.

I drive an hour again to meet her and I spend the day at her apartment. It’s perfect. A little messy in a cute way. Lots of books, clothes, and functional things strewn about. None of that crap average girls have, like pillows embroidered with “Live, Laugh, Love.” There is also lots of sunlight.

We talk and I help her make brownies (not special brownies; I don’t fucking do drugs.) I’m not a fan of sweets, but she’s gone to the effort to make them from scratch, and she claims to be good at baking. I have a few and she isn’t lying. Because my lower jaw is still numb from surgery, I miss some chocolate smeared on my chin. “Aww,” she laughs, and wipes it, and something about it just then is surreal to me. Yes, I of course never imagined this would come from threatening to report a cybercriminal to the police, but part of me also never thought I would have an experience like this altogether – I thought it would just be hookups with girls I felt contempt for forever.

When we finish eating, she takes me to her bedroom.
I’ll skip the details as I’m sure everyone’s sick of hearing about my sex life.
The one thing I will say though is this:

I’ll always remember lying in her bed after we had finished, an arm draped over her, the sun filtering down on us through the trees outside her window. She takes my hand and playfully tries to get up – she uses cash everywhere (she withdraws thousands a week) and has to go to the bank before they close. I pull her back down and tell her I just want us to stay here. She laughs and finally yanks me, grumbling but unable to hide my smile, out of bed. She slips on nothing but an oversized sweater and shoes and says “Come on!” with a wave as she leaves the room. I sit on the edge of her bed and watch as she goes. Something about the whole moment just stuck with me. I see now that I didn’t want it to end. I was happy. And though I didn’t know it yet, I was in love with her.

That began a trend of seeing her every weekend, and then, weekdays too.
Before I knew it, we had been dating for 8 months. Those were the happiest months of my life.



The last time I saw her, we went for a walk through the hills overlooking the city where she lived. We reached a great vista after a bit of a hike and stopped to take in the view.

She gazed out at the city the whole time we were up there, almost like I wasn’t there. She was talkative in bursts, and then wouldn’t say anything for a while. She spoke about random things, seemingly as the ideas came to her, as if she were thinking aloud. Some of the things she said were about me; what specifically she said, though it was nothing of great significance, I would like to keep to myself, as those words are among the final memories I have of her.

We spent two hours up there, and she was shivering before long. We were dressed warm, but it was nearly dusk, and she always got cold easily. It was actually kind of cute because she always tried to talk and behave normally through her teeth chattering. I suggested a few times that we get going before it got much colder – and truth be told, I was getting a little restless – but she kept saying “Just a little while longer,” so eventually I let it go.

When I could wait no longer, I made up an excuse and told her I had to be home by a certain time and needed to get home. “OK,” she said a couple of times. “OK.” We got up from the bench we were on and made the trek back to her car. I distinctly remember her not taking my hand on the long walk down.

She drove us back to her apartment, where I had parked. During the drive, she smiled.
She had one hand on the wheel and was back to holding my hand super tightly with the other.

When we got back to her place, I kissed her goodbye for a few minutes.
Then I got out and waved to her as I walked to my car.



The next day, though I didn't know it at the time, she killed herself.

I found out after the fact, and with some difficulty. I didn’t text her for a few days following our last meeting. When I did, several days passed without a response. I called as well and it went to voicemail. I figured at first that she might have gone overseas: she traveled a lot and would use a different SIM, and it had happened once before. That time, I had got a hold of her by email, so I tried that this time as well.

A few days of radio silence turned into a month. She never responded to my email, so I drove to her apartment and knocked on her door. No one responded, and though she had asked me to move in with her a couple of times over the months, I didn't have a key. The neighboring tenants were no help, and as I stated before, she was an orphan, so she had no family to speak of. I didn’t know what else to do, so I waited the whole day there in front of her door. No one ever came in or out.

I didn’t sleep much during those weeks, and on my face I think it took a permanent toll. I spent all my time cycling through all the possibilities in my mind: did she get hurt? Did some of this shady business she was involved in come back to bite her? And I feel bad now for having considered it, but did she simply just ghost me? I became frenzied trying to figure out what had happened.

Desperation eventually brought me back to her darkweb activity. I pulled up the old message board where she had posted before, hopeful for any clues. I knew she had mentioned something about a gun when I first found her, and I wondered if that had anything to do with this.

It turns out that it did. She had made several posts elaborating on the one I stumbled upon 8 months prior – the one in which she had been asking how to purchase an unregistered gun. These later posts detailed her desire to use that gun to kill herself. I read with pain how many responses urged her not to do it. They told her to think of and lean on her loved ones. They told her the future would be worth it. But she ignored them, and had posted about her intent to go through with it as recently as 20 days before I last saw her.

I requested a death certificate as soon as I could to confirm my suspicions, but really, I already knew the truth.
And when it arrived in the mail, and I held it in my hands, whatever closure it brought could do nothing to ease one feeling:
The sickening pain I felt when I realized that I never told her that I loved her.

There are many lessons to be learned from this, but to keep it relevant and end on a lighter note:

You can be insane, but if you’re hot, that’s all that matters.

@Amnesia @Vidyacoper @AleksVs @forwardgrowth @Speedy @ht-normie-ascending @diggbicc @Norwooder @karbo @Patient A @HumidVent @ScramFranklin @Hopelessmofoker @Ethnicshit @kilgrave @JizzFarmer @laske.7 @baruch @middayshowers @Darkstrand @didntreadlol @Swescension @Moneymaxxed @kms_currycell @nastynas @Slayerullah @Got the hunter eyes @GigaTyroneOrDeath @LayDownAndCope @PrisonMike @ProjectAscension @WhatToDo @EternalLearner @BigBoy @sloopnoob @Slayerino

read every word, ik how bad it'd be for you rn but don't do anything stupid or hurt yourself.

 

[Deleted member 5634]

I got another one My ex girlfriend told me the person that She's dating has more bones. Straight up, haha.

 

[Slayerullah]

I will preface this story by saying up-front:
This one does not end well for me.

Almost two years ago, I had a profile on OKCupid. Yes, I know – if Tinder and Bumble have devolved into cesspools, then OKC is a radioactive waste dump, but that’s what I was doing, so just go with it.

The pickings on that app are slim, but even among the lookers, the worst part is that it’s a desert of homogeneity. You know what I mean: landwhales who don’t know what “curvy” means, and cardboard cutouts too braindead to speak to anything besides how much they like dogs, food, and The Office. A wasteland.

My eyes have glazed over one morning when I'm on the app and I nearly swipe left on a profile. I stop and scroll through it. She’s pretty – not perfectly so – but different. She’s used a handle instead of her first name, and she’s written a few short sentences about things like Byzantine fault tolerance, the Library of Alexandria, and how she’s going to change the world. I look at her pictures again. There is a quality of intelligence in her eyes that eludes the edges of description. Sad? Worldly? Godlike, even? I don’t know. But I am intrigued, and I am ravenous for anyone who can still intrigue me.

View attachment 326507 View attachment 326508

I am experienced enough to know that even if you look good, swiping and hoping means nothing on an app like that. And for reference, I am mostly pleased with how I look at this point: I was still waiting on facial fat grafts and was frauding with a bit of makeup in the meantime, but I had racked up a stack of triple-digit likes from average and below girls already.

This girl, however, is different. She will require a special touch to yield the response I desire – and I sense it will be worth it.

I get to work on finding out everything about her, convinced I’ll unearth something I can use that will be guaranteed to catch her eye. I am skilled at this, as I bet many of us are, but I haven’t done it or needed to in a long time, and I feel somewhat subhuman soiling my hands with such a task. Regardless, it doesn’t seem to matter at first. Reverse image searches, social media, and the like all come up empty.

I think to try her handle instead. It’s a unique username, but not entirely so, and the search returns a few Instagram accounts, Facebook posts, etc. that make reference to it. I can quickly tell they’re not her and don’t bother investigating beyond the first few. I continue to tab through several pages of search results. Eventually, I spot a potential hit: a nearly identical username shows up in an archive of a clearweb proxy for an onion address. It’s a cached post from a darkweb message board.

The poster has written how they want to buy an unregistered gun and are asking for sources. Their own replies in the thread go on to provide a surprisingly naive number of details about their life. I cross-check what they’ve said with elements of the girl’s profile – her location, age, and linguistic style – and it really does sound like her.

I fire up Tor and revisit the message board. I find the account again and comb through the rest of this person’s posts. They discuss intimate involvement in things like credit card fraud, PayPal scams, and fraudulent bank transfers. I digest everything, hearing the wheels in my own head turning. I mull it over for a minute, then decide: I have what I need, and I cannot help but laugh.

There is theoretically a small risk with what I am about to do, especially since she may have a gun and my personal information and pictures are on the app, but the worst probable result is that I am wrong about her identity and simply get blocked or ignored.

I compose a message carefully written to catch her attention in an unignorable way: I lay out, in all caps at the top of the message, a list of every crime she had elsewhere admitted to committing. “There’s no point in denying it, so let’s skip that part,” I go on to write. I then tell her I could go to the police about what’s she done, but she seems interesting and I would genuinely rather meet her. Finally, I add that if she doesn’t believe that I would pursue this with the authorities, she should think again, because apparently I was already willing to go so far as to dig up dirt on someone I didn’t even know, so there’s no telling how much further I’d take things. Autismmax.me, indeed.

I send the message and wait. Realistically speaking, there’s an extremely low chance that’d she even see my message, much less respond to it, so I’ve likely built this up a lot more in my head than it it’s worth.

Three days pass. Then I hear back from her.

Her reply is two lines long:
She says she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
And she asks where I would like to meet.

I’m in disbelief but I don’t say anything to betray it. After a little back and forth, we agree to meet that weekend at a coffee shop near her, in this giant indoor marketplace with lots of vendors and foot traffic. She lives in a city an hour’s drive away from me, but I needed a location where she couldn’t get away with putting a bullet in my head too easily, in case that’s what I was walking into. I also figured I had kind of blackmailed her, so the least I could do was go to her instead of making her come to me.



The day comes and I arrive early at the coffee shop. I grab a chair at the intersection of four different ways to enter the seating area so she can see me no matter which way she comes in. I wait. Our agreed meeting time passes with no indication that she’s arrived. Soon, she is 5, 10, 15 minutes late. I decide to message her on OKC when she messages me first.

Her message tells me to go outside, to the street. I have to walk around a few times since it’s my first time in the area, but I find where she’s talking about. There’s a car idling at the curb. I walk toward it but keep my distance. No, I’m not low inhib, I just don’t want to get fucking shot. I tilt my head down to try to peer through the passenger window, and it rolls down.

It’s her.

“Hi there,” I say from like 10 feet away.
“Hello,” she says.

“Are… you coming in, or what?” I ask.
She asks me in turn if I can just get in her car.

“Are you kidding? Fuck no,” I laugh. This shit is ridiculous, and part of me starts to regret this harebrained plan.
I tell her to park her fucking car and come inside.

I go back to wait in the coffee shop. A few minutes later, she comes over to my table and sits down.

She’s 5’7” and looks pretty much like her pictures. She is quite thin, almost noticeably so. Nose has an unusual bump, which you can see, but something about it makes me appreciate her, as perfection can randomly send me into a rage. Her eyes are stunning. She’s got a grey t-shirt with a sort of micro-corduroy texture that I still remember, and black pants – there are no slutty vibes at all.

Also, no, she does not have big boobs.

She is on edge. I try to break the ice without explicitly apologizing for scaring her into coming. As we all know, unless you’ve just run over her puppy or something, never tell a woman you’re sorry. She tells me she thought I was the police, or that I wasn’t real.

I brush it off; she seemed smart enough, I say, to appreciate the amount and unique type of effort I put into getting her attention; average girls would run for the hills. She laughs softly and says “Mhm.” It seems to resonate with her.

I don’t know exactly what to do, so I decide to just proceed as though if everything about this situation were normal, and begin trying to get to know her. I tell her a mix of things about myself and ask her whatever comes naturally to me. She isn't bothered by this, and I cannot explain it since I’ve only experienced this feeling two other times in my life, but within ten or so minutes, things simply flow between us. She opens up about astronomy, her coding projects, how she was orphaned, her love of baking, and how she plans to change the world. For my part, I am a rapt listener: she fascinates me, and intuitively, I just know things about her – what she means and where’s she coming from – and she feeds off of that. We sit at the table and pass the time for about an hour this way. The topics of the police, or her crimes, or how I got her to meet me never come up again.

After an hour, my butt is sore from sitting. I tell her, “Let’s walk around.” There are a lot of things to see in this marketplace, and I’ve never been. Interestingly to me, I normally don’t give a shit about this kind of stuff, but I don’t mind being there this time. I’ve so far also not felt inclined to turn on any intentional charm. I wonder why, and realize slowly that I think I’m genuinely enjoying her company; it’s bizarre that it would be in these circumstances, but I’m getting to be myself with someone for the first time in a long time.

We walk around and continue talking. Maybe half an hour in, I make some wisecrack about something at one of the shops. She laughs sweetly – she has a soft laugh that lilts up a note at the end – and reaches over to hold my hand. To be frank, I snap out of the moment for a split-second and am shocked, but then I relax and let it happen. She intertwines our fingers and loops her arm through mine, and doesn’t let go the rest of the afternoon. Again, I cannot explain how, but it feels natural, and it is a moment I will never forget.

I walk her back to her car when we’re done. My car’s parked in a different structure, and she offers to drive me back.

When we get to my car, she parks and just kind of stares straight ahead, not saying anything.
For all my boldness in orchestrating this, I don’t know how to end this blackmail-turned-date, so I sit there too.

“Well,” I begin. She leans in and starts making out with me.

I’ve learned to suspend my surprise by now. She’s also a very good kisser, or perhaps it’s that we’re very in sync while kissing. Some people you’re not compatible with, but she was a good balance of everything; assertive, but giving too.

When we finish, she puts her hand on my leg and lowers her head a bit toward my crotch, looking up at me.
“Can I?” she says. For anyone I’m about to lose: I assure you, I’m not making this up.

This is much more than I was prepared for, and I decline. I actually don’t like normal blowjobs, where I’m just sitting there passively; I need to be actively fucking someone’s throat to be interested in it.

“But,” I venture, “maybe we can pick things up next weekend?”

She kisses me again and says OK.

I collect myself for a moment. “I have to tell you,” I say, “I didn’t expect anything like this to happen.”

She laughs and says “Well, I did think you’re insane, but you’re also really hot.”



The following Saturday, I text her first thing when I wake up. I have thought about her all week.

“Hey”
“Hey”
“Want to come over”
“Yeah I’ll see you around 10:30”
“K”

It was a thing of beauty to me how little need be said between us so early in knowing each other.

I drive an hour again to meet her and I spend the day at her apartment. It’s perfect. A little messy in a cute way. Lots of books, clothes, and functional things strewn about. None of that crap average girls have, like pillows embroidered with “Live, Laugh, Love.” There is also lots of sunlight.

We talk and I help her make brownies (not special brownies; I don’t fucking do drugs.) I’m not a fan of sweets, but she’s gone to the effort to make them from scratch, and she claims to be good at baking. I have a few and she isn’t lying. Because my lower jaw is still numb from surgery, I miss some chocolate smeared on my chin. “Aww,” she laughs, and wipes it, and something about it just then is surreal to me. Yes, I of course never imagined this would come from threatening to report a cybercriminal to the police, but part of me also never thought I would have an experience like this altogether – I thought it would just be hookups with girls I felt contempt for forever.

When we finish eating, she takes me to her bedroom.
I’ll skip the details as I’m sure everyone’s sick of hearing about my sex life.
The one thing I will say though is this:

I’ll always remember lying in her bed after we had finished, an arm draped over her, the sun filtering down on us through the trees outside her window. She takes my hand and playfully tries to get up – she uses cash everywhere (she withdraws thousands a week) and has to go to the bank before they close. I pull her back down and tell her I just want us to stay here. She laughs and finally yanks me, grumbling but unable to hide my smile, out of bed. She slips on nothing but an oversized sweater and shoes and says “Come on!” with a wave as she leaves the room. I sit on the edge of her bed and watch as she goes. Something about the whole moment just stuck with me. I see now that I didn’t want it to end. I was happy. And though I didn’t know it yet, I was in love with her.

That began a trend of seeing her every weekend, and then, weekdays too.
Before I knew it, we had been dating for 8 months. Those were the happiest months of my life.



The last time I saw her, we went for a walk through the hills overlooking the city where she lived. We reached a great vista after a bit of a hike and stopped to take in the view.

She gazed out at the city the whole time we were up there, almost like I wasn’t there. She was talkative in bursts, and then wouldn’t say anything for a while. She spoke about random things, seemingly as the ideas came to her, as if she were thinking aloud. Some of the things she said were about me; what specifically she said, though it was nothing of great significance, I would like to keep to myself, as those words are among the final memories I have of her.

We spent two hours up there, and she was shivering before long. We were dressed warm, but it was nearly dusk, and she always got cold easily. It was actually kind of cute because she always tried to talk and behave normally through her teeth chattering. I suggested a few times that we get going before it got much colder – and truth be told, I was getting a little restless – but she kept saying “Just a little while longer,” so eventually I let it go.

When I could wait no longer, I made up an excuse and told her I had to be home by a certain time and needed to get home. “OK,” she said a couple of times. “OK.” We got up from the bench we were on and made the trek back to her car. I distinctly remember her not taking my hand on the long walk down.

She drove us back to her apartment, where I had parked. During the drive, she smiled.
She had one hand on the wheel and was back to holding my hand super tightly with the other.

When we got back to her place, I kissed her goodbye for a few minutes.
Then I got out and waved to her as I walked to my car.



The next day, though I didn't know it at the time, she killed herself.

I found out after the fact, and with some difficulty. I didn’t text her for a few days following our last meeting. When I did, several days passed without a response. I called as well and it went to voicemail. I figured at first that she might have gone overseas: she traveled a lot and would use a different SIM, and it had happened once before. That time, I had got a hold of her by email, so I tried that this time as well.

A few days of radio silence turned into a month. She never responded to my email, so I drove to her apartment and knocked on her door. No one responded, and though she had asked me to move in with her a couple of times over the months, I didn't have a key. The neighboring tenants were no help, and as I stated before, she was an orphan, so she had no family to speak of. I didn’t know what else to do, so I waited the whole day there in front of her door. No one ever came in or out.

I didn’t sleep much during those weeks, and on my face I think it took a permanent toll. I spent all my time cycling through all the possibilities in my mind: did she get hurt? Did some of this shady business she was involved in come back to bite her? And I feel bad now for having considered it, but did she simply just ghost me? I became frenzied trying to figure out what had happened.

Desperation eventually brought me back to her darkweb activity. I pulled up the old message board where she had posted before, hopeful for any clues. I knew she had mentioned something about a gun when I first found her, and I wondered if that had anything to do with this.

It turns out that it did. She had made several posts elaborating on the one I stumbled upon 8 months prior – the one in which she had been asking how to purchase an unregistered gun. These later posts detailed her desire to use that gun to kill herself. I read with pain how many responses urged her not to do it. They told her to think of and lean on her loved ones. They told her the future would be worth it. But she ignored them, and had posted about her intent to go through with it as recently as 20 days before I last saw her.

I requested a death certificate as soon as I could to confirm my suspicions, but really, I already knew the truth.
And when it arrived in the mail, and I held it in my hands, whatever closure it brought could do nothing to ease one feeling:
The sickening pain I felt when I realized that I never told her that I loved her.

There are many lessons to be learned from this, but to keep it relevant and end on a lighter note:

You can be insane, but if you’re hot, that’s all that matters.

Write a book bro

 

[Patient A]

I got another one My ex girlfriend told me the person that She's dating has more bones. Straight up, haha.

“You don hav enuff BONES this isn’t working, I’m breaking up with you”