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[font=Times New Roman, serif]The author of the text and the text itself are based on Fyodor Dostoyevski's masterpiece „Notes from the Underground“ (1864). The author took the majority of the first chapter of this famous novel and only replaced a few words and modified certain sentences to describe his own life situation. It's important to mention that people like him are of course at the bottom of the barrel. Nevertheless it is clear that such persons as the writer of these notes not only may, but positively must, exist in our degenerate society, when we consider the circumstances in the midst of which our society is formed. He is one of the representatives of a generation still living. In this condition, entitled ‘The Inceldom,’ this person introduces himself and his views, and, as it were, tries to explain the causes owing to which he has made his appearance and was bound to make his appearance in our midst.[/font]
[font='Times New Roman', serif]I am an ugly man…. I am a spiteful man. I am a subhuman. [/font]
[font=Times New Roman, serif]I believe my maxilla is recessed, my midface is too long and I have close set eyes. However, I don't know much about my own subhumanity, and do not know for certain what really destroys my facial harmony. I don’t consult a surgeon for it, and never have, though I have a respect for looksmaxing, plastic surgery and mentalcels. [/font]
[font='Times New Roman', serif]Besides, I am a virgin and blackpilled, sufficiently so to not respect any females at all (I am well-educated enough not to believe their bluepilled copes). I refuse to consult a surgeon because I'm an unemployed basement dweller and broke as fuck. That you probably will not understand if you are a female who can easily find a sugar-daddy to pay for your rent. Well, my fellow incel brothers will understand it, though. [/font]
[font=Times New Roman, serif]Of course, I can’t explain who it is precisely that I am mortifying in this case by my LDAR lifestyle. I am perfectly well aware that I cannot ‘pay out’ the thots who rejected me in the past by not having sex with me. I know better than anyone that by all this I am only hurting myself and no one else. But still, if I don't leave my dark room anymore it is from spite. My suicidal thoughts are bad, well—let them get worse! I have been going on like that for a long time— nearly fifteen years. Now I am thirty. I used to go to a prestigious university but I barely graduated. [/font]
[font='Times New Roman', serif]It was not only that I could not become a Normie, I did not know how to become anything; neither an aspie nor NT, neither a pervert nor a nice guy, neither a hero nor an insect. [/font]
[font=Times New Roman, serif]Now, I am living out my life in my corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and useless consolation that a blackpilled subhuman cannot become anything seriously, and it is only Norman who becomes anything. Yes, a man in the 21st century must and morally ought to be pre-eminently a characterless creature; a man of character, supposedly a Normie is pre-eminently a limited creature. That is my conviction of thirty years. I am thirty years old now, and you know thirty years is a whole lifetime; you know it is the age where you will inevitably become a hopeless oldcel. To live longer than thirty years is bad manners, is vulgar, immoral. Who gets laid after the age of thirty? Who does even live beyond thirty? Answer that, sincerely and honestly I will tell you who do: Only cope artists, Normies, Chads and Stacies. I tell all oldcels that to their face, all these norwooding old virgins, all these silver-haired and reverend wizards! I tell the whole world that to its face! [/font]
[font=Times New Roman, serif]Stay, let me take a drag on my cigarette ... You imagine no doubt, gentlemen, that I want to entertain you. You are mistaken in that, too. I am by no means such a mirthful person as you imagine, or as you may imagine; however, irritated by all this babble (and I feel that you are irritated) you think fit to ask me who I am—then my answer is, I am just a worthless incel like you. I went to college because I still had some hope left that I might find someone to have sex with eventually (and solely for that reason), but after getting one rejection after another, after losing my abilities to hope and to cope I immediately settled down in my corner. I used to live in this corner before, but now I have settled down in it. My room is a wretched, horrid one in the center of the city. My flatmate is an oldcel as well, ill-natured from the blue pill, and, moreover, there is always some weird odor about him because of the countless showers he seems to take every day. [/font]
[font='Times New Roman', serif]I am told that the gender ratio of this city and the hypergamic nature of its females is bad for me, and that with my ugly face it is highly unlikely to get laid here. I know all that better than all these bluepilled cuckolds and „morally superior“ IncelTears bullies. But I am remaining in this city; I am not going away from here! I am not going away because ... ech! Why, it is absolutely no matter whether I am going away or not going away, I will stay completely invisible anyway. [/font]
[font='Times New Roman', serif]What will a narcissistic thot speak of with most pleasure? Answer: Of herself. [/font]
[font='Times New Roman', serif]Well, so I will talk about myself now as well. [/font]
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