Not even death can give me release from the shackles of inceldom.
TL;DR version: What if some day or night a demon were to sneak after you in your loneliness and whisper into your ear: "This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every sorrow and every paranoid thought and sigh and everything immeasurably small or great in your life will reoccur, all in the same succession and sequence--even your most cringe moments of abject failure in the face of women, your feelings of total rejection and inadequacy, the realization that you are an incel born into a hellish nightmare. You are forever cursed and can never truly die and know peace for death is merely a temporary cope. The eternal hourglass of existence is turned over and over, and you with it, a mere speck of dust."