Imagine how easily you'd be able to form social connections. You'd be far better adjusted because people would be attracted to you and enjoy your presence. Because of the halo effect, you would be allowed to make mistakes and learn from them. Females would look into your eyes when speaking to you, maybe give you a brief touch on the forearm, and they'd laugh at all your jokes. You could plaster a fart joke bio under the grainiest shirtless bathroom selfie since the 80's, and you'd get a thousand fold more matches on Tinder than the incel with professional photographs and a bio from Hemingway himself.
Employment would be a breeze; you'd know a guy who knows a girl whose boss has a job opening, and the halo effect would handle the rest. You wouldn't have to send out hundreds of job applications just for the privilege of getting ghosted by one person that agreed to interview you.
Everyone would beneath you. Literally. Because you'd be at least 6'2'' barefoot.
Being out of shape wouldn't even matter, but if you ever decided to get in shape, it'd be easy. You could spend your gym time balancing a yoga ball on your cock while flapping your arms and legs against the ground like a beached trout, maybe order double cheese on your large pizzas instead of triple, and you'd look like Jay Cutler in a year. You'd also probably get a few girlfriends from the treadmill station.
The only difference between the life you have now and the life you could have had is a few millimeters of bone on your skull, clavicles, and femurs. It's over. You were given one life, and it's an incel life. You exist to be stepped on.
Employment would be a breeze; you'd know a guy who knows a girl whose boss has a job opening, and the halo effect would handle the rest. You wouldn't have to send out hundreds of job applications just for the privilege of getting ghosted by one person that agreed to interview you.
Everyone would beneath you. Literally. Because you'd be at least 6'2'' barefoot.
Being out of shape wouldn't even matter, but if you ever decided to get in shape, it'd be easy. You could spend your gym time balancing a yoga ball on your cock while flapping your arms and legs against the ground like a beached trout, maybe order double cheese on your large pizzas instead of triple, and you'd look like Jay Cutler in a year. You'd also probably get a few girlfriends from the treadmill station.
The only difference between the life you have now and the life you could have had is a few millimeters of bone on your skull, clavicles, and femurs. It's over. You were given one life, and it's an incel life. You exist to be stepped on.
