Okay this shit is getting old now. Like it’s my fault I was born ugly and you whores want nothing to do with me. Yet people have the nerve to attack incels for the attitudes we have. Well what the fuck does everyone expect?!
They expect a man who is nearly forty years old to have had at least some sexual experience at his age.
I'm not trying to be nasty or flippant; you and I are in the exact same position, after all.
It's easy to forget, finding ourselves in the unpleasant place we are both damned to, how strange, how utterly alien, things like us are to the vast majority of people. Sure, they'll have their sad tales of infidelity, romantic betrayals, loves won and lost, how their second divorce was so much more disappointing than their first. They'll lament the fact they lost some woman they had their eye on to a friend and so on. But that someone could actually reach our age and never had dated, never been kissed, never even held hands with a girl when we were awkward adolescents is utterly alien. After all, they've been loved themselves at some point. They've witnessed others, not necessarily Adonises, also receiving love. So how could there be some so utterly undesirable that they've never received even so much as an authentic smile from a woman?
We shouldn't exist and yet, through some black miracle, here we are. The world we find ourselves consigned to is constructed along the twisting lines of impossible geometries. We operate according to a foreign logic, we don't live as men live.
Now, we are the Other, so that in itself is unsettling. But add to that our resentment, which is entirely justifiable, and the Other becomes frightening. The freak behind the sideshow glass is unsettling as he languishes in silence, but the moment he begins to pound against it he graduates to the status of monster. And if he breaks the barrier? Well, he becomes a devil dragging its nightmare into the waking world.
So they laugh at us to assure themselves we are innocuous clowns while we are still tame. They become indignant if we dare rise up and bare our fangs, calling us horrible and vicious though we haven't shed a single drop of blood. And if, at long last, a member of our unfortunate tribe succumbs to the weight of his own damnation and acts as all devils do, they put a bullet in his head, dump his corpse into a pauper's grave, and turn away long enough to forget anything had been buried in the first place.
This is how human beings come to terms with nightmares, how alien geometries are beaten into sensible angles. Were we fortunate enough to find the prospect of being unlovable as unthinkable as they do, we would be doing the exact same thing. We would banish the latest story of some undesirable abomination taking up the gun by turning off the television, shake the bad thoughts from our heads, and smile as we held the woman sleeping beside us. Not a panacea of course, not an answer to every uncomfortable question, but more than enough to comfort us until the sun rose and the long night drew to a close.
It must be a wonderful thing to be a patron of the sideshow rather than one of the exhibits if for no other reason than if you wait long enough, stop your ears and close your eyes, the carnival eventually leaves town rather than dragging you along with it.
