Okay so there's a bunch of story in the book that isn't really incel related so I'm going to give a general synopsis of it.
It's a tale of two cities (guy didn't really have a knack for creative titles), one in England and one in France, in two periods, the last years of the Ancien Régime, then during the peak Terror and the lefty tyranny in France right after the French R*volution. The protagonists are an old banker, a friend of his, the wife and kids of the latter dude and a pathetic sack of human shit whose only redeeming quality is looking like the friend (the one with the family). They end up stuck in France after said R*volution and must find their way back to England in order to survive.
Up to speed? Good. Major spoilers ahead. It's the book with the most sales around excluding the Bible, so if you haven't read it yet you never will. Sorry buddy boyo.
Ok so the banker's friend guy (I forgot his profession, sorry) gets thrown in jail in France. The pathetic sack of human shit has feelings for friend's wife, so he takes his prescription in order to drug... somebody (I really don't remember any details, sorry) and swaps places in jail with the friend (they are identical in looks, remember). He gets executed instead of the guy with the family and the wife, now an old hag, gets this glitter in her eyes while telling her grandchildren the story of the stupid ass simp who sacrificed himself for her.
Umm sweaty, yikes. This is problematic.
If the pathetic sack of human shit looked the same as the banker's friend, he could have had a wife, especially in the fucking eighteenth century, ya feel me? But let's give the author this concession.
If the pathetic sack of human shit had not confessed to the wife, he could have kept some dignity. But nooo, we had to drag pathetic sack of human shit through the mud because... because we're sadistic normies? I don't know man, NT psychology is fucking alien to me.
If the pathetic sack of human shit looked the same as the banker's friend, then obviously he had a bad personality. And he does, this guy is the OG mentalcel. He's addicted to alcohol and he's a doormat who lets everyone walk over him.
Ehh, where the fuck did I want to lead this thread to?
Yes, Charles Dickens was a gaslighting normie who preached personality over looks, like any other normie, except this man was witty enough to make a living out of writing.
Shit, this post is not 100 real like I wanted it to be. Clap your motherfucking keyboards and make it worthwhile. What's your opinion on this piece of literature? Love y'all homies.
It's a tale of two cities (guy didn't really have a knack for creative titles), one in England and one in France, in two periods, the last years of the Ancien Régime, then during the peak Terror and the lefty tyranny in France right after the French R*volution. The protagonists are an old banker, a friend of his, the wife and kids of the latter dude and a pathetic sack of human shit whose only redeeming quality is looking like the friend (the one with the family). They end up stuck in France after said R*volution and must find their way back to England in order to survive.
Up to speed? Good. Major spoilers ahead. It's the book with the most sales around excluding the Bible, so if you haven't read it yet you never will. Sorry buddy boyo.
Ok so the banker's friend guy (I forgot his profession, sorry) gets thrown in jail in France. The pathetic sack of human shit has feelings for friend's wife, so he takes his prescription in order to drug... somebody (I really don't remember any details, sorry) and swaps places in jail with the friend (they are identical in looks, remember). He gets executed instead of the guy with the family and the wife, now an old hag, gets this glitter in her eyes while telling her grandchildren the story of the stupid ass simp who sacrificed himself for her.
Umm sweaty, yikes. This is problematic.
If the pathetic sack of human shit looked the same as the banker's friend, he could have had a wife, especially in the fucking eighteenth century, ya feel me? But let's give the author this concession.
If the pathetic sack of human shit had not confessed to the wife, he could have kept some dignity. But nooo, we had to drag pathetic sack of human shit through the mud because... because we're sadistic normies? I don't know man, NT psychology is fucking alien to me.
If the pathetic sack of human shit looked the same as the banker's friend, then obviously he had a bad personality. And he does, this guy is the OG mentalcel. He's addicted to alcohol and he's a doormat who lets everyone walk over him.
Ehh, where the fuck did I want to lead this thread to?
Yes, Charles Dickens was a gaslighting normie who preached personality over looks, like any other normie, except this man was witty enough to make a living out of writing.
Shit, this post is not 100 real like I wanted it to be. Clap your motherfucking keyboards and make it worthwhile. What's your opinion on this piece of literature? Love y'all homies.
