It’s over, buddyboyos. You were born with a face only a blind mother could tolerate, a frame built for bullying, and a soul crafted by God’s drunk intern. Meanwhile, Chad was forged with angelic looks, his jawline sharp enough to cut welfare checks, his height a towering monument to your genetic failure. And the foids? Oh, they notice. They always notice. But not you, never you. You’re background noise, a NPC in their hypergamous RPG where the only quest is "ride the cock carousel until your looks decay."
"But muh personality!" Shut the fuck up. Personality is the cope of the ugly. Your "wit" is just the mating call of the desperate, a sad clown dance to distract from your recessed chin. Think I’m wrong? Name one Stacy who picked a 5’4" currycel over a drugged-up Chad with the IQ of a toaster. You can’t. Because biology is LAW, and women are its loyal enforcers. They’ll fuck a felon with a six-pack but ghost you for "vibes" after you buy them three lattes.
Let’s talk about your "oneitis." That girl who smiled at you once because customer service forced her to? She’s currently getting railed by a guy who forgot her name mid-thrust. And you? You’re here, seething into a screen, jacking off to pixels because real women recoil at your aura of boiled hot dogs and despair. Even if you gymmaxxed into a Greek statue, it wouldn’t matter. You’d just be the "creepy fit guy" instead of the "creepy skinny guy." The game was rigged from the start.
And don’t even start with "betabuxxing." Oh, sure, maybe some post-wall roastie will "settle" for you when her looks crater and she needs a human ATM. Congrats! You "won" the right to fund her Chad-only body count while she dry-humps you quarterly out of obligation. That’s your peak. That’s the "love" bluepill cucks scream about. It’s not romance, it’s financial cuckolding with extra steps.
The blackpill isn’t doomposting. It’s science. Look at Tinder stats. Look at divorce courts. Look at the way foids orbit Chads like flies on shit while you rot in the "friendzone". Even your "male friends" would sell you out for a crumb of pussy. Brotherhood? Another fairy tale. They’d mog you for a chance to simp harder than you.
So what’s left? Rope? LDAR? Maybe. But first, let’s laugh at the greatest joke: You thought you mattered. You thought the world owed you happiness instead of a front-row seat to your own humiliation. The facts are out: Evolution doesn’t care about your tears. Women don’t care about your "potential."
It's over.
"But muh personality!" Shut the fuck up. Personality is the cope of the ugly. Your "wit" is just the mating call of the desperate, a sad clown dance to distract from your recessed chin. Think I’m wrong? Name one Stacy who picked a 5’4" currycel over a drugged-up Chad with the IQ of a toaster. You can’t. Because biology is LAW, and women are its loyal enforcers. They’ll fuck a felon with a six-pack but ghost you for "vibes" after you buy them three lattes.
Let’s talk about your "oneitis." That girl who smiled at you once because customer service forced her to? She’s currently getting railed by a guy who forgot her name mid-thrust. And you? You’re here, seething into a screen, jacking off to pixels because real women recoil at your aura of boiled hot dogs and despair. Even if you gymmaxxed into a Greek statue, it wouldn’t matter. You’d just be the "creepy fit guy" instead of the "creepy skinny guy." The game was rigged from the start.
And don’t even start with "betabuxxing." Oh, sure, maybe some post-wall roastie will "settle" for you when her looks crater and she needs a human ATM. Congrats! You "won" the right to fund her Chad-only body count while she dry-humps you quarterly out of obligation. That’s your peak. That’s the "love" bluepill cucks scream about. It’s not romance, it’s financial cuckolding with extra steps.
The blackpill isn’t doomposting. It’s science. Look at Tinder stats. Look at divorce courts. Look at the way foids orbit Chads like flies on shit while you rot in the "friendzone". Even your "male friends" would sell you out for a crumb of pussy. Brotherhood? Another fairy tale. They’d mog you for a chance to simp harder than you.
So what’s left? Rope? LDAR? Maybe. But first, let’s laugh at the greatest joke: You thought you mattered. You thought the world owed you happiness instead of a front-row seat to your own humiliation. The facts are out: Evolution doesn’t care about your tears. Women don’t care about your "potential."
It's over.
