It gives me a harrowing sense of dread, an existential hollowing of my stomach: pregnancies and all things pregnant have become a recently discovered kryptonite of mine.
To merely see pregnant women, or discover that a woman is newly pregnant, to hear discussions about upcoming babies on the way-- all of these things make me die inside, the way incels die when they see good looking young man in the company of a healthy nubile female with perky breasts.
The bitterness is because I DIDNT MAKE THEM PREGNANT. They became pregnant without me. Pregnancy as the ULTIMATE form of rejection. Yes, you never tried-- but THATS THE POINT: life goes on without you. What better way to have that punched into your skull better than to see a female with a baby bump and a dumb look of casual triumph on her face. It feels personal.
You have to think about it like this. Women are putting their bodies on trial, to endure insufferable amounts of pain, and irrevocable scarring, all for A MAN-- a man that I could NEVER become. It's simply unbelievable. And you're here, you can't even get one to LOOK at you without them CRINGING. You might call such a man a 'scumbag' what does your opinion matter? SHE doesn't see it that way. He sees that THUG and says, 'I want that ONE.' The calculus of sperm gyrating in the synapses of dumb young sluts. It's also the most important thought or subconcious choice they will ever make. How funny it is that THEY will participate in civilization. That THEY will give their sons and daughters a path. That THEY are the ones with a civilizational throne, a legacy, this human bondage by blood. Vaginas as interdimensional portals to immortality. That's what we are missing out on if you can't BREED. The gate is SHUT, you LOSE.
To see a pregnant is as though I see game of life itself in my periphery. And this sense of purpose calls to me. Screams OUT TO ME:
"MAKE LIFE"
But I cannot. Because I am an incel. My sperm is rotten. Rotten and worthless. They know it. They know it just looking at me. I know it looking at myself in the mirror. Seeing what I have become. For I have nothing to offer. No genes. No hope. No safety.
I only have the fury of my own impotence and the passion of my own spite.
To be a living incel is a form of masochism.
To merely see pregnant women, or discover that a woman is newly pregnant, to hear discussions about upcoming babies on the way-- all of these things make me die inside, the way incels die when they see good looking young man in the company of a healthy nubile female with perky breasts.
The bitterness is because I DIDNT MAKE THEM PREGNANT. They became pregnant without me. Pregnancy as the ULTIMATE form of rejection. Yes, you never tried-- but THATS THE POINT: life goes on without you. What better way to have that punched into your skull better than to see a female with a baby bump and a dumb look of casual triumph on her face. It feels personal.
You have to think about it like this. Women are putting their bodies on trial, to endure insufferable amounts of pain, and irrevocable scarring, all for A MAN-- a man that I could NEVER become. It's simply unbelievable. And you're here, you can't even get one to LOOK at you without them CRINGING. You might call such a man a 'scumbag' what does your opinion matter? SHE doesn't see it that way. He sees that THUG and says, 'I want that ONE.' The calculus of sperm gyrating in the synapses of dumb young sluts. It's also the most important thought or subconcious choice they will ever make. How funny it is that THEY will participate in civilization. That THEY will give their sons and daughters a path. That THEY are the ones with a civilizational throne, a legacy, this human bondage by blood. Vaginas as interdimensional portals to immortality. That's what we are missing out on if you can't BREED. The gate is SHUT, you LOSE.
To see a pregnant is as though I see game of life itself in my periphery. And this sense of purpose calls to me. Screams OUT TO ME:
"MAKE LIFE"
But I cannot. Because I am an incel. My sperm is rotten. Rotten and worthless. They know it. They know it just looking at me. I know it looking at myself in the mirror. Seeing what I have become. For I have nothing to offer. No genes. No hope. No safety.
I only have the fury of my own impotence and the passion of my own spite.
To be a living incel is a form of masochism.
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