gstvtrp said:
Alia, there's a journalist making a podcast on incels. Would you please represent us on her podcast? You'd do a better job than me.
Alia? I think you may have mistaken me for someone else.
Having said that, it would be great for one of us to speak to a journalist, wouldn't it? We may be devils on the internet, but in the real world we're nothing more than ghosts. And, quite frankly, I'm not entirely sure which is worse. Would it be preferable to be hated or ignored? However terrifying the possibility of burning in Hell for an eternity may be, I think we can all agree, as conscious beings, the prospect of oblivion is infinitely worse.
Though I'd never admit it publicly, I'm tempted to say the former would be preferable to the latter. These are occult things, matters that are only uttered in whispers, but isn't one of the primary motivations driving men like Rodger to commit their crimes the possibility of their pain being recognized, even if only for a brief while and in the most sinister light? It's less than ideal, of course, it's horrible, but if you're incapable of singing a lovely song people want to listen to, a piercing scream becomes the only alternative to echoing into silence.
Journalists should speak to us but, sadly, I suspect any one of us participating in one of their shows would find himself in the position of sideshow exhibit in very short order. Because sex is so very important to the human experience, so essential to what it means to be an actual person, those who are alienated from it would inevitably become objects of morbid curiosity. The world has become far too genteel for carnivals; no one is allowed to laugh at the bearded lady or the lobster boy any longer. If men and women want a guilty giggle at Nature's mistakes in order to make themselves feel secure in their own joy, they no longer have recourse to anything or anyone except for us. We are the only remaining children of Merrick's tribe, the deformed jesters still dancing in the court of the handsome king.
I would love to speak to a journalist, just as I would love every person who has ever posted in this place to speak to a journalist. But the hour's grown late and we should probably be honest with each other. The moment we spoke, the person interviewing us would stop her ears, look at our repulsive faces, and laugh. After all, if she took a moment to listen her laughter may become weeping, and no one likes to feel sad.
The carnival freak loses his value the moment he makes the carnival patron feel sad instead of grateful. Which is why, I suppose, they gawk at us behind panes of glass where they can see our misery but never risk the possibility of hearing our voices.
We look like monsters but speak like men.
What could ever be more abominable than that?