Is this all life is? All it amounts to is mediocrity? Why is there no plot? There is no character arc. I’m not changing. I haven’t gone through a manhwa training phase where I do pushups and situps and magically get 5 inches taller and get a smaller waist. If I stay late after work, I won’t have a famous K‑pop idol come late in the night and fall in love with me. All that will happen is me cleaning the toilets longer because people shit more in them. If I give money to a homeless person, they will not give me superpowers and send me on a great adventure; they’re just going to mumble incoherent crack ramblings. I will never get hit by a truck and get transported into a fantasy land full of magic and swords. I will just jump out of the way of the truck and yell curses under my breath at how bad of a driver he is. I will never be walking on the street and find a magical sword that kills evil spirits. All I will ever amount to is a small one‑bedroom house that I’m renting when I’m 50, and even then I will not have any money. I will be poor, living off of a shitty beater car, while all my young, attractive coworkers will be making more money and living glamorously. My entire life has been waiting for that “turning point,” the moment where the protagonist becomes the main character, the moment things change and get interesting, the moment they begin to enjoy life, but now I realize that’s fake. Nothing will ever change, and I will never evolve. I will never get better. I will never become anything extraordinary. I will always be that one guy who everyone “likes” but never really “loves,” not in a romantic way, but in a way where, if you are talking to someone, you reference somebody else’s joke or sentence. The type of person where you think, “Oh man, I don’t wanna go to work, but at least **** will be there.” I will never be somebody’s favorite person, just a tolerable entity that they somewhat enjoy speaking to over someone else’s. I am the background character in an anime who looks at the girl, never actually touching them. Figuratively, I am at the bottom dark pit, looking up at everyone who is on top of a sunny hill. I am nothing more than a bottomless expanse of fake humor and emotions. People don’t refer to me as a unique personality, just “oh, he’s alright.” I will never be different or recognizable. Put me in a room of 100 men and I will be akin to almost all of them. The reality is that I am not special and nothing will ever change. I will forever be known as the filler, not the substance. I am salt to a fermented fish, only a means to an end, never the goal. My purpose in life is chasing an imaginary goal that was set forth by the media I have consumed in my lifetime. My life is blended with fictitious delusions that I have put onto myself as a way of escaping the reality that nobody cares about me. I cannot stand watching award shows for this reason. All I see are people greater than me getting love and praise, everyone looking up at them.
If I were in an anime, I would be the poorly drawn, unnamed side character gazing at the amazing fight above the city, only appearing for one shot. Women so beautiful it’s incomprehensible will be joking with the main characters while I sit there next to my generic background female anime girlfriend. I won’t find the unique, striking woman. I am nothing. I am worthless and replaceable. Nobody will ever need me. Nothing I do is exceptional, only passable. I won’t be talented or smart or strategic, just “meh.” Why am I subject to this fate? This is worse than death, worse than suffering. I am nothing.
There is beauty and poetry in suffrage. Suffering is inherently unique and interesting. A man who suffers will have stories, will have experiences, will have a unique perspective. A man in Sudan will be able to tell the story of how he and his family escaped horse‑drawn fighters. A man in Palestine will regale in the tales of him running amongst the rubble of his former home. I have nothing. I have suffered the extent of which I was born into. Nothing will be written into the history books, nothing will be noted in schools 100 years from now, just a birth record. That’s all. Maybe someone will get bored and look at birth records from the 2000s and find me, but they won’t even pay attention, just close out the tab to watch porn.
I yearn in indescribable need for glamour and fame. Not a day goes by where I don’t feel intense feelings of sorrow and misery that I am unknown. I was meant to conquer, to go on great adventures, to make a name for myself and fight. Instead, I am sterile, cucked, castrated. My will to conquest and pillage is gone, only replaced by lust and apathy. I am no longer curious or full of wonder, just filled with boredom. Nothing interests me, even things I loved once. Even video games I no longer find enjoyment in; I just use them as a way to kill the endless time I have. The most depressing experience I have ever had was watching that One Piece special, realizing that I wouldn’t be a powerful pirate in a romantic love story with one of the main heroines. I would be the loser selling god gobble fruit or whatever the fuck off the side of the road.
Art is devoid in my life. There is no passion or glitz. My life isn’t a watercolor painting; it’s an AI generation. Nothing I do is noteworthy, really. Even my basic movements lack personality. I am rage. I feel nothing but hatred for all of you. I fucking hate humanity. All of you are scum. You all insist on shoving your talents in front of me. My only pleasure is seeing other people suffer. The mere image of a happy man makes me nauseous. You are all filth at the bottom of the metaphorical shoe that is worn by people greater than us. We are all meaningless. The only people who matter are those who will be remembered. Life has no meaning. Nothing does. The rabbit hole doesn’t lead to Wonderland; it just leads to an empty burrow abandoned by a rabbit mother.
even this is generic. nobody will remember it. it’s a meaningless water post that people will comment dnr under. it’s not well written or poetic, just incel ramblings that are as valuable as the homeless person screaming about the Jews outside of 7/11. i cannot write beautiful literature, just word slop for the sake of whining about my boring life.
everything makes me sick.
If I were in an anime, I would be the poorly drawn, unnamed side character gazing at the amazing fight above the city, only appearing for one shot. Women so beautiful it’s incomprehensible will be joking with the main characters while I sit there next to my generic background female anime girlfriend. I won’t find the unique, striking woman. I am nothing. I am worthless and replaceable. Nobody will ever need me. Nothing I do is exceptional, only passable. I won’t be talented or smart or strategic, just “meh.” Why am I subject to this fate? This is worse than death, worse than suffering. I am nothing.
There is beauty and poetry in suffrage. Suffering is inherently unique and interesting. A man who suffers will have stories, will have experiences, will have a unique perspective. A man in Sudan will be able to tell the story of how he and his family escaped horse‑drawn fighters. A man in Palestine will regale in the tales of him running amongst the rubble of his former home. I have nothing. I have suffered the extent of which I was born into. Nothing will be written into the history books, nothing will be noted in schools 100 years from now, just a birth record. That’s all. Maybe someone will get bored and look at birth records from the 2000s and find me, but they won’t even pay attention, just close out the tab to watch porn.
I yearn in indescribable need for glamour and fame. Not a day goes by where I don’t feel intense feelings of sorrow and misery that I am unknown. I was meant to conquer, to go on great adventures, to make a name for myself and fight. Instead, I am sterile, cucked, castrated. My will to conquest and pillage is gone, only replaced by lust and apathy. I am no longer curious or full of wonder, just filled with boredom. Nothing interests me, even things I loved once. Even video games I no longer find enjoyment in; I just use them as a way to kill the endless time I have. The most depressing experience I have ever had was watching that One Piece special, realizing that I wouldn’t be a powerful pirate in a romantic love story with one of the main heroines. I would be the loser selling god gobble fruit or whatever the fuck off the side of the road.
Art is devoid in my life. There is no passion or glitz. My life isn’t a watercolor painting; it’s an AI generation. Nothing I do is noteworthy, really. Even my basic movements lack personality. I am rage. I feel nothing but hatred for all of you. I fucking hate humanity. All of you are scum. You all insist on shoving your talents in front of me. My only pleasure is seeing other people suffer. The mere image of a happy man makes me nauseous. You are all filth at the bottom of the metaphorical shoe that is worn by people greater than us. We are all meaningless. The only people who matter are those who will be remembered. Life has no meaning. Nothing does. The rabbit hole doesn’t lead to Wonderland; it just leads to an empty burrow abandoned by a rabbit mother.
even this is generic. nobody will remember it. it’s a meaningless water post that people will comment dnr under. it’s not well written or poetic, just incel ramblings that are as valuable as the homeless person screaming about the Jews outside of 7/11. i cannot write beautiful literature, just word slop for the sake of whining about my boring life.
everything makes me sick.
