When you’re a boy, women love your baby face, but when it stays that way they despise you. You’re less than human. Avoided like a train vagrant with box cutters. Its why child stars become raging heroin addicts and has-beens by sexual maturity. You have to get rid of that milk and cookie physique and angularize your features or you’re gonna be a cherub faced incel who shoots up fat girl gyms.
A good mother can never prepare you for her kind. Joan Crawford would prepare you for women. Like prep school before the Ivy league. Better to be a hated whipping boy turned Fabio than a teddy bear that follows the golden rule. His soul to be mutilated and made an example on trite solipsistic girl memes warning the tribe of the dangers of the ” nice guy”.
Mom will love you no matter what. Women will hate you for asking how they’re feeling. Fuck your boss. Turn you against your soul. Age you like a labor camp.
It makes sense to tell someone to just be themselves when they are perfect to you. Its not her fault that nature doesn’t want me. Women select for tatted flat brim hat wearing skater bros, grant funded hipster art welders and herpes infected basketball players with the functional IQs of dwarf hamsters. I’m anachronistic, waiting a genetic death. My soulmate is tube porn. it’s the age of mammals now. I’m that slow, fading spiky headed velaso raptor scavenging for carcasses left by Aegean cruise line tennis coaches and sleeved up indie bands.
Mom did her best. But she lead me to believe in myself. She should have guarded me like the Sloth. Chained me in a basement away from the mockery of the normies and Fed me snickers bars. Heinous but far more merciful than the ill fated expressions of encouragement. It would’ve spared me the agony of believing that people would love me.
I’m a lot happier now that I’ve come to some grim conclusions regarding my value to others. If you’re Jared Leto, just be whatever you feel like. Freedom to breathe as a fully realized human is yours. Any weaknesses you have will be vastly outweighed by your looks, talent and fame. Just don’t get married like Johnny Depp. Then all that goes out the window. Your welcome for that insightful advice, Jared.
A ways down the totem pole where I live is where it gets juicy.
Here it’s better to scrap yourself and scour gay flex magazines for arm day routines and internet sub reddits to rebuild. If you’re a man, you’re not allowed to be human. Its the future already. It’s Mad Max dressed up like Mad Men. That’s what fools people. The costumes and set design. You’re the only one who wants to be you. Everyone else demands you to be a character, an archetype.
To succeed with women you must become a bionic personality. Cut out your weaknesses, toss the fleshy remnants of your natural persona into a rotting pile of remains like a civil war field surgeon. Consider it casualties of the dating field. Out here your weaknesses could turn gangrenous…make other parts of you feel again.
Just don’t fucking be yourself at all costs. Be an interloper. An emotional cyborg, a piecemeal ransom note of a person assembled from a variety of superior men.
You’re either a Frank Milller character or a despondent incel addicted to midget porn and rampage fantasies. No other options. Its all they’ll allow.
Not allowed to be as you are. You’re a pet project car on bricks all week being tweaked so you’ll be flashy and loud enough to lure teen pussy on the weekend cruise.
Girls can be themselves because vaginas are always accepted no matter what type of person they are a part of. Men have to be created. If a patrilineage of capital class horse breeders and chiseled Mediterranean cocksmith genetics didn’t do it for you, you’ll have to yourself. That’s why there’s a manosphere.
There are three types of value a person has. Innate human value, sexual value and economic value.
In a world where people are mapping The genome for upgrades and uploading human minds onto google cloud, I still sell my labor to physically move things around in a building. The world demands my crass chorework for flickering cutaway shots of Cisco systems commercials but won’t reward me with access to vagina. I’m in the wrong century. Utility in today’s world is good looks, earning power and lifestyle. Those are ultimately derived from aestetics, ingenuity or psychopathy. Usually all three.
I have a body for the mountains, not the beach. A face that sells self defense mace. My market value is a bad episode of time bandits where the stone smashing dark age henchman gives chase only to be left behind in the antiseptic future of bio domes and unisex iridescent jumpsuits. They never show you the after. What do they actually do with that guy? Well I know now.
My cloud atlas was off a half click. Could’ve been a trapper in the badlands when there were still nubile squaws to be wrought. You don’t need all of your teeth when captive breeder women don’t have an instagram to look up your smiling travel pics.
I’m an improvement over pug faced bushmen and most Appalachians but an absolute failure for the modern market.
My entire human value amounts to what entertainment or social benefits I can provide for twit valley girl descendants.
I don’t feel alone I’m that regard. A lot of men are the middle homo erectus on a snarky evolutionary chain t shirt some hipster girl wears that ends with the archetype male she wants to fuck. Always skaters, indie guitarists, or oddly, guy with Bernie Sanders glasses.
I’m not a troll but set one foot in a yuppie bar and it becomes clear that I am gods shitty mr potato head sent to earth. A tangible connection between the people and the sadism their tortuous and creator. A God without remorse or compunction. I’m not even a creation born from his image. Just a living first generational prototype for the horrors of faceswap.
I should’ve bought a pressure cleaner. Homesteaded in the new economy by blasting grime off strip mall parking lots. It would’ve made the world a cleaner and better place than baring my soul in self expression. It also would make wearing a surgical mask publicly less suspect. I should move to Beijing.