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Long-time lurker, first time poster.
Read this thread if you want to wallow in the cope and self-pity of a pathetic subhuman. This is the actual life story of my sexual development.
My current statistics:
31 years old
Flirtless
Touchless
Hugless
Kissless
Dateless
Sightless*
Virgin
I have literally never touched a human female with romantic intent, nor have I been touched with romantic intent. (I have physically touched non-family women in the course of everyday life, such as taking change from a cashier, and I have hugged female family members.)
I have literally never interacted with a human female with the express goal of gaining her romantic affections, neither in the real world nor online. I can hold a conversation, make people laugh, and even be thought of as funny and interesting, but I have never in my life actively sought to flirt with any girl or woman. I find the thought of an attractive woman sullying herself by responding to my unwanted advances acutely embarrassing and repulsive.
* I have never seen a vagina in real-life with my own eyes. I have never seen a pair of exposed breasts in real-life with my own eyes, excepting public situations like sunbathing (and even never closer than 10 metres). I could visit a strip club, but being “Sightless” is almost a badge of honour at this point.
[hr]
The Formative Years - A.K.A The seeds are planted
I was a decent tennis player in my youth, the best player in my age-group in the district. At the age of 13, before I had fully entered puberty and when I was still OK-looking, the most attractive and popular girl at my local tennis club asked me out. Internally, I freaked. I immediately lied about already having a girlfriend to avoid saying yes. She was sceptical and kept asking me questions about who she was, what school she went to and so on, but I keep lying and lying.
I still don’t know fully why I did this at the time, but I think it was my complete shock at the idea that any girl would be interested in me, combined with the panic of not knowing what to do next (“If I say yes, what exactly do I do then? Am I supposed to say something? Do I go and stand next to her? Do I sit next to her? Try and hold her hand or hug her? That seems unbearably awkward. Better to lie and leave immediately.”) It didn’t even cross my mind to say something like, “I’d love to. Want to meet up for a game of singles or see a movie or something?”
The sheer panic, disbelief, and nervousness of being addressed in a sexual manner was mind-consuming. Unconsciously, my fight or flight instincts were screaming for me to RUN. From that point onwards, my auto-pilot ‘strategy’ for dealing with attractive girls was solidified: Avoid, ignore, retreat. If you are engaged in conversation, never stray beyond the topic at hand and certainly never express anything that could be construed as flirting. I didn’t even understand what I was doing, I was just responding to stress like any good Beta: by running away.
Over time, this became habit. Even after I became self-aware enough to deconstruct my faulty mindset, my introverted and beta personality simply wasn’t extroverted or energetic enough to overcome the status-quo.
- - - - - - -
After reaching puberty I developed cystic acne that covered my face, upper chest, shoulders, upper back, and buttocks. The acne also partially covered my thighs. After consulting with a dermatologist, she described my case as “particularly severe and extensive.” My parents wanted to try the gentlest treatments first, so by the time I was began a course of Accutane (the most potent treatment), I had already endured 2-3 years of being a leper at high school. The idea that any girl would be attracted to me was simply laughable.
The pictures below accurately represent my condition at the time:
My face alone was literally enough to disgust people just by entering their field of vision, never mind if anyone saw with my clothes off.
- - - - - - -
While I did go through puberty (the acne proved that), somehow I retained the physique of a 12 year old boy. I am rail thin with no masculine shape or muscle mass to speak of (no ‘V’ shape, sunken chest , tight narrow shoulders, wire-thin legs and arms,). My bodyshape is that of a starving ectomorph. I guess I could have gone to the gym, but I had zero desire to be seen in public and hated the thought of subjecting people to the bolognese acne on my back and chest.
This picture is about what my body at the time looked look (my arms might have been a bit skinnier):
- - - - - - -
At this point I earn my nickname. Some clever soul observed that I had “chicken legs”, so in the esteemed tradition of high school, I became known as “Chook”. Later one of the smart and popular kids remarked that my acne had the “Colour and texture of a chicken’s crest”, so my nickname was further solidified. Even I had to marvel at this clever ret-conning of my nickname origin story.
Now it’s 15 years later and I still occasionally repeat the phrase “Colour and texture” over and over in my head when I want to self-flagellate: I get off on the waves of shame and humiliation that wash over me when I remember that moment.
This kid described my face in such a dry and matter-of-fact tone, as if he were a biologist reading from field notes and classifying me in some taxonomy of disgusting creatures. In his eyes I was a subhuman animal fit only for study and gawking at.
- - - - - - -
In my senior year of high school, I was to receive an award at an end of year assembly. I was so ashamed of my physique that I ended up stuffing my shirt with tissues at the shoulder-pads to make my chest look broader when I was standing on stage.
Yes, I actually fucking stuffed my shirt with tissues as if I were some desperate preteen girl trying out her new training bra.
- - - - - - -
I was in a study group for Year 11 and 12 students. The group met twice a week and there were two “Jacks”: one older Jack (me), and one younger Jack. To differentiate us, people in the group started calling me “Big Jack” and him “Little Jack”, which seemed absurd given the incongruity of our appearances, but the groups were supervised by teachers so everything was kept ‘family friendly.’
However, at some point “Little Jack” and one of the girls in the group started going out, and naturally this became a topic of discussion. After marvelling at the new couple, one girl in the group said, “From now on, I think ‘Little Jack’ should be called ‘Big Jack.’”
Everyone laughed. I laughed along with them.
The joke was devastating for three reasons. One, it poked fun at the juxtaposition of our body sizes (my skinny preteen frame versus his normal male body); two, it made plain that I had been sexually out-performed by a younger male; and three, it was innocuous enough to be plausibly deniable in front of the adults. It was brilliant. Triply-effective.
I revisit this memory often. I love to revel in the degradation of being forced by social convention to laugh along with the ‘good-natured’ banter of a tormentor, while your eyes go dry and start to prick and your stomach is suddenly so empty.
- - - - - - -
I have a male cousin who is 8 years younger than me. He used to look up to me and say that he wished he was old enough to go to school with me and be my friend. We would visit his family occasionally and I always remembered him as this cute little kid, i.e.someone who was completely non-threatening and devoid of any sexuality whatsoever.
Then I moved away to go to college and didn’t see him for 4 or 5 years. While in college my mother forwards me a Christmas card from my cousin’s family, and – wouldn’t you know it there was my “cute little” cousin, except now he’s reached puberty and has a distinctly chaddish appearance. In his photo he’s leaning against his motocross bike in full kit, he’s broad-chested with a good jaw, and he’s smiling and covered in mud and grime from a race.
And, of course, leaning against him is his cute, blond JB girlfriend.
There are few things more pathetic than the desperate stomach-churning melancholy of being metaphorically cuckolded by a kid 8 years your junior – especially one you’ve seen run around in shit-filled nappies.
I wonder. Does the boy in that photo still look up to me? Let’s see:
He’s 17. He’s loving life as he parties on the motocross circuit and ploughs JB snatch.
You’re 25. You’re a flirtless, touchless, kissless virgin still living with your parents.
What do you think? LOL.
- - - - - - -
I’m sitting in the common room at college between classes when I overhear one of my classmates talking quietly to a friend from high school.
The friend (a girl) asks my classmate, “Is that Jack Lastname?”
“Yeah,” he responds.
“Oh my god. I can’t believe I used to want to go out with him.”
He sort of quietly scoffs and guffaws at the same time. “What were you thinking?”
All this time I’ve been concentrating on shuffling around in my backpack pretending to look for my phone or keys, just so I don’t look as if I’m eavesdropping. As I get up to leave I manage to sneak a look in their direction to see who he was talking to.
Guess what?
It’s the same girl who asked me out at the tennis club. The hot, popular one I turned down because I was a massive pussy. The difference now is that she’s just realised how LUCKY she was when I rejected her, because being a known associate of ‘Chook’ (let alone his ex-girlfriend) would have been an indelible blight on her social record.
Oh, the relief she must be feeling! Oh, the joy of nudging up the social totem pole by pushing another downwards! Oh, the calculated pleasure of revealing an ‘embarrassing’ little titbit about yourself that only further validates your social proof! OF COURSE you can’t believe you used to want to go out with me! The idea of our two bodies in close proximity is the very definition of comedic irony! Let’s all laugh together at this absurd notion! Let’s all bond by tearing down this sub-human!
Despite it all, I don’t begrudge her actions. The ego is a powerful thing. The desire to apply a salve to one’s self-esteem, or to boost it even further, is irresistible. She did what anyone would do if they had the chance.
Years later I would recognise this moment as a foundational brick in my journey towards inceldom.
Up until this point I was still clinging to the last bluepilled vestiges of my psyche. I had somehow managed to convince myself that I wasn’t actually an emasculated disgrace, that I instead suffered from some sort of body-dysmorphia. You know that feeling you get when you look in the mirror and think, “God I look terrible”, but then you catch yourself and you think, “No, surely not. Everyone is their own harshest critic. I mean, at the right angle and in the right light, sometimes I even look OK.” You console yourself by insisting that, “No one actually sees you like this. There’s just no way that other people’s perception of you is as warped as your own.”
But then you enter that college common room. The curtain is pulled back. You hear the unvarnished truth. You hear it delivered by someone who had no idea you were listening, had no reason to protect your feelings or to uphold social niceties, and had no reason to lie. You hear it delivered by a person with universally-accepted high sexual status.
The truth.
You can’t ignore it.
You fucking idiot. You actually do look like that thing staring you in the mirror. What you see is real. You actually are so physically blighted and deprived of masculinity that a girl will express genuine relief over her decision to not date you 4 years ago. That’s right, the idea of being with you is so corrosive that you can damage her status beyond time and space.
“I can’t believe I used to want to go out with him.”
One sentence that perfectly encapsulates my leper status, dispensed casually and dismissively, like one would note the weather. Completely soul crushing.
Looking back on it all, I’m actually relieved we never went out, because if we had, we would have both had to acknowledge my actual existence in that common room. We would have had to say hello to each other, look into each other’s eyes, make small talk, and pretend that we’re both not overcome by the cloying stench of my sub-humanity.
No, instead I pretend not to recognise her. I allow her to validate herself to others at my expense – after all, what else am I good for? In my most pathetic moments, I think to myself, ‘That is what it feels like to give pleasure to a woman. Your existence in the world caused a fleeting moment of pleasure, however twisted and obfuscated, in an attractive woman. You stud!’
[hr]
Cliffsnotes of My University Dorm Experience - A.K.A Welcome to hell
Live on campus in a co-ed dorm. Arrive two days late into the week-long orientation period, only to find that everyone has already formed their social groups. Not only that, almost everyone you meet on campus is more attractive than you, so no established group allows you to join them for fear of lowering their status. You become an effective outcast almost immediately.
- - - - - - -
All bathrooms on campus are co-ed. This means you are forever making hot girls uncomfortable with your subhuman appearance and ‘creepy loner’ reputation (even though the latter was essentially forced on you), and you are constantly amoged by Chads walking around with just their towels on. You try washing your hands at a sink while standing next to a Chad – you both look in the mirror and the juxtaposition of his slayer physique with your acne-ridden stick figure is just mind-blowing. It’s hard to believe you’re the same age and species.
- - - - - - -
You start shaving in the shower instead of at the sink because standing next to Chads is too emasculating. Moreover, the thought of a hot girl walking in and seeing your shirtless upper-body doubles your heart rate and makes you sweat. You do the best you can shaving in the shower, but you miss small spots here and there and your face and neck gets a little patchy, but what the fuck does it even matter, there’s no polishing a turd. After a few weeks of this you just give up and grow a neckbeard.
- - - - - - -
You take a risk and visit the college nightclub a couple of times. On one occasion you happen to be in close proximity to a drunk, sub-5 land-whale. For some inexplicable reason she turns and looks at you and begins to dance half-heartedly. In the spirit of social reciprocation you attempt to dance along, and although you have never danced before and you are painfully mechanical and awkward, for the first time in your life you realise that you are actually engaged in something akin to a male-female mating-ritual. Immediately your small penis becomes fully erect and your face and neck undergo vasocongestion (sex flush). You are simultaneously overcome with acute embarrassment at your body’s complete and total sexual capitulation, and with a powerful sense of self-awareness regarding the absurdity of the situation. You innately understand that, given sound body and mind, there is simply no way this girl would normally interact with you. You stop ‘dancing’ and leave immediately. The entire process from her turning around and you leaving takes no more than 45 seconds.
The next day you are eating lunch in the dining room alone when two of the land-whale’s friends approach you. The two friends tell you that land-whale is *not* interested in you and was only dancing with you because she was drunk. They repeatedly insist that you should “not read anything into it.” You reply in monotone, “I know”.
In other words, the sub-5 land-whale’s social group is convinced that you are a creep and a degenerate, the kind of low-life who would interpret any form of interaction as an invitation to begin a stalking campaign. Their assumption fills you with a burning rage and your eyes begin to fill with angry tears. Who the FUCK do you CUNTS think you are? It was YOU who WALKED AWAY, not her. YOU were the one preserved her reputation by leaving, not her. YOU did HER a favor. And yet! AND YET! now they can’t even grant you the common courtesy of being IGNORED. They have to strip you of any DIGNITY you may have had left; they have come up to you in public, rub it in your face; they have to make sure that you KNOW they think you’re disgusting.
- - - - - - -
For reasons you can only attribute to masochism, you try the nightclub a few more times. While playing a game of 8-Ball, two hot exchange students approach you and invite you to join them. You look over at their group and see that they are all 6’s and 7’s. You immediately recognize the incongruity of the situation (a skinny acne-cel manlet with a group of girls like that?) and come to the conclusion that you are being pranked. You say “No thanks”, intentionally lose your game of 8-Ball to get it over with, and leave the club to avoid more attempted public humiliations.
- - - - - - -
Eventually you stop waking at normal hours. You are only active at night and early morning so you can use the bathroom and shower without been seen by hot girls and Chads. If anyone enters the bathroom while you’re in there (god-forbid), you stand perfectly still and pretend as if you’re not there (my record is 25 minutes sitting on a toilet in dead silence). If you’re in the shower and the water is running, you extend the length of your showers until you’re absolutely positive the person has left.
- - - - - - -
Eventually you stop going to breakfast, lunch and dinner at the dining hall. You can’t stand to be seen by the happy and attractive people around you. You become fully nocturnal to minimise contact with other human beings.
- - - - - - -
Eventually you can hardly bear the thought of being seen by anyone on campus. You feel like a creep, a blight, a boil on the skin of the attractive sex-having society that is slowly choking you to death. You are a vampire and other human beings are garlic. You stop going to class. You stop going to the dining hall. You hold in your shits and piss in empty soda bottles so you don’t have to leave your room. You only come out at night to leave campus and get takeaway. You aimlessly drive the streets because you have nothing better to do. You fail your classes due to lack of attendance. You drop out of college. You return to live with your parents.
- - - - - - -
When your Dad comes to help you move out of college, he notices that one of your dorm neighbours (a female), offers to help move boxes. Your Dad, ever the optimist, assumes that she is either your girlfriend or someone you hooked up with, because why else would she help you? Your Dad is visibly happy that you have ‘made it’ with the opposite sex – a clear case of motivated reasoning and willful. Despite this, you make no effort to correct him. You allow your Dad to feel the pride of having a ‘stud’ son.
Read this thread if you want to wallow in the cope and self-pity of a pathetic subhuman. This is the actual life story of my sexual development.
My current statistics:
31 years old
Flirtless
Touchless
Hugless
Kissless
Dateless
Sightless*
Virgin
I have literally never touched a human female with romantic intent, nor have I been touched with romantic intent. (I have physically touched non-family women in the course of everyday life, such as taking change from a cashier, and I have hugged female family members.)
I have literally never interacted with a human female with the express goal of gaining her romantic affections, neither in the real world nor online. I can hold a conversation, make people laugh, and even be thought of as funny and interesting, but I have never in my life actively sought to flirt with any girl or woman. I find the thought of an attractive woman sullying herself by responding to my unwanted advances acutely embarrassing and repulsive.
* I have never seen a vagina in real-life with my own eyes. I have never seen a pair of exposed breasts in real-life with my own eyes, excepting public situations like sunbathing (and even never closer than 10 metres). I could visit a strip club, but being “Sightless” is almost a badge of honour at this point.
[hr]
The Formative Years - A.K.A The seeds are planted
I was a decent tennis player in my youth, the best player in my age-group in the district. At the age of 13, before I had fully entered puberty and when I was still OK-looking, the most attractive and popular girl at my local tennis club asked me out. Internally, I freaked. I immediately lied about already having a girlfriend to avoid saying yes. She was sceptical and kept asking me questions about who she was, what school she went to and so on, but I keep lying and lying.
I still don’t know fully why I did this at the time, but I think it was my complete shock at the idea that any girl would be interested in me, combined with the panic of not knowing what to do next (“If I say yes, what exactly do I do then? Am I supposed to say something? Do I go and stand next to her? Do I sit next to her? Try and hold her hand or hug her? That seems unbearably awkward. Better to lie and leave immediately.”) It didn’t even cross my mind to say something like, “I’d love to. Want to meet up for a game of singles or see a movie or something?”
The sheer panic, disbelief, and nervousness of being addressed in a sexual manner was mind-consuming. Unconsciously, my fight or flight instincts were screaming for me to RUN. From that point onwards, my auto-pilot ‘strategy’ for dealing with attractive girls was solidified: Avoid, ignore, retreat. If you are engaged in conversation, never stray beyond the topic at hand and certainly never express anything that could be construed as flirting. I didn’t even understand what I was doing, I was just responding to stress like any good Beta: by running away.
Over time, this became habit. Even after I became self-aware enough to deconstruct my faulty mindset, my introverted and beta personality simply wasn’t extroverted or energetic enough to overcome the status-quo.
- - - - - - -
After reaching puberty I developed cystic acne that covered my face, upper chest, shoulders, upper back, and buttocks. The acne also partially covered my thighs. After consulting with a dermatologist, she described my case as “particularly severe and extensive.” My parents wanted to try the gentlest treatments first, so by the time I was began a course of Accutane (the most potent treatment), I had already endured 2-3 years of being a leper at high school. The idea that any girl would be attracted to me was simply laughable.
The pictures below accurately represent my condition at the time:
My face alone was literally enough to disgust people just by entering their field of vision, never mind if anyone saw with my clothes off.
- - - - - - -
While I did go through puberty (the acne proved that), somehow I retained the physique of a 12 year old boy. I am rail thin with no masculine shape or muscle mass to speak of (no ‘V’ shape, sunken chest , tight narrow shoulders, wire-thin legs and arms,). My bodyshape is that of a starving ectomorph. I guess I could have gone to the gym, but I had zero desire to be seen in public and hated the thought of subjecting people to the bolognese acne on my back and chest.
This picture is about what my body at the time looked look (my arms might have been a bit skinnier):
- - - - - - -
At this point I earn my nickname. Some clever soul observed that I had “chicken legs”, so in the esteemed tradition of high school, I became known as “Chook”. Later one of the smart and popular kids remarked that my acne had the “Colour and texture of a chicken’s crest”, so my nickname was further solidified. Even I had to marvel at this clever ret-conning of my nickname origin story.
Now it’s 15 years later and I still occasionally repeat the phrase “Colour and texture” over and over in my head when I want to self-flagellate: I get off on the waves of shame and humiliation that wash over me when I remember that moment.
This kid described my face in such a dry and matter-of-fact tone, as if he were a biologist reading from field notes and classifying me in some taxonomy of disgusting creatures. In his eyes I was a subhuman animal fit only for study and gawking at.
- - - - - - -
In my senior year of high school, I was to receive an award at an end of year assembly. I was so ashamed of my physique that I ended up stuffing my shirt with tissues at the shoulder-pads to make my chest look broader when I was standing on stage.
Yes, I actually fucking stuffed my shirt with tissues as if I were some desperate preteen girl trying out her new training bra.
- - - - - - -
I was in a study group for Year 11 and 12 students. The group met twice a week and there were two “Jacks”: one older Jack (me), and one younger Jack. To differentiate us, people in the group started calling me “Big Jack” and him “Little Jack”, which seemed absurd given the incongruity of our appearances, but the groups were supervised by teachers so everything was kept ‘family friendly.’
However, at some point “Little Jack” and one of the girls in the group started going out, and naturally this became a topic of discussion. After marvelling at the new couple, one girl in the group said, “From now on, I think ‘Little Jack’ should be called ‘Big Jack.’”
Everyone laughed. I laughed along with them.
The joke was devastating for three reasons. One, it poked fun at the juxtaposition of our body sizes (my skinny preteen frame versus his normal male body); two, it made plain that I had been sexually out-performed by a younger male; and three, it was innocuous enough to be plausibly deniable in front of the adults. It was brilliant. Triply-effective.
I revisit this memory often. I love to revel in the degradation of being forced by social convention to laugh along with the ‘good-natured’ banter of a tormentor, while your eyes go dry and start to prick and your stomach is suddenly so empty.
- - - - - - -
I have a male cousin who is 8 years younger than me. He used to look up to me and say that he wished he was old enough to go to school with me and be my friend. We would visit his family occasionally and I always remembered him as this cute little kid, i.e.someone who was completely non-threatening and devoid of any sexuality whatsoever.
Then I moved away to go to college and didn’t see him for 4 or 5 years. While in college my mother forwards me a Christmas card from my cousin’s family, and – wouldn’t you know it there was my “cute little” cousin, except now he’s reached puberty and has a distinctly chaddish appearance. In his photo he’s leaning against his motocross bike in full kit, he’s broad-chested with a good jaw, and he’s smiling and covered in mud and grime from a race.
And, of course, leaning against him is his cute, blond JB girlfriend.
There are few things more pathetic than the desperate stomach-churning melancholy of being metaphorically cuckolded by a kid 8 years your junior – especially one you’ve seen run around in shit-filled nappies.
I wonder. Does the boy in that photo still look up to me? Let’s see:
He’s 17. He’s loving life as he parties on the motocross circuit and ploughs JB snatch.
You’re 25. You’re a flirtless, touchless, kissless virgin still living with your parents.
What do you think? LOL.
- - - - - - -
I’m sitting in the common room at college between classes when I overhear one of my classmates talking quietly to a friend from high school.
The friend (a girl) asks my classmate, “Is that Jack Lastname?”
“Yeah,” he responds.
“Oh my god. I can’t believe I used to want to go out with him.”
He sort of quietly scoffs and guffaws at the same time. “What were you thinking?”
All this time I’ve been concentrating on shuffling around in my backpack pretending to look for my phone or keys, just so I don’t look as if I’m eavesdropping. As I get up to leave I manage to sneak a look in their direction to see who he was talking to.
Guess what?
It’s the same girl who asked me out at the tennis club. The hot, popular one I turned down because I was a massive pussy. The difference now is that she’s just realised how LUCKY she was when I rejected her, because being a known associate of ‘Chook’ (let alone his ex-girlfriend) would have been an indelible blight on her social record.
Oh, the relief she must be feeling! Oh, the joy of nudging up the social totem pole by pushing another downwards! Oh, the calculated pleasure of revealing an ‘embarrassing’ little titbit about yourself that only further validates your social proof! OF COURSE you can’t believe you used to want to go out with me! The idea of our two bodies in close proximity is the very definition of comedic irony! Let’s all laugh together at this absurd notion! Let’s all bond by tearing down this sub-human!
Despite it all, I don’t begrudge her actions. The ego is a powerful thing. The desire to apply a salve to one’s self-esteem, or to boost it even further, is irresistible. She did what anyone would do if they had the chance.
Years later I would recognise this moment as a foundational brick in my journey towards inceldom.
Up until this point I was still clinging to the last bluepilled vestiges of my psyche. I had somehow managed to convince myself that I wasn’t actually an emasculated disgrace, that I instead suffered from some sort of body-dysmorphia. You know that feeling you get when you look in the mirror and think, “God I look terrible”, but then you catch yourself and you think, “No, surely not. Everyone is their own harshest critic. I mean, at the right angle and in the right light, sometimes I even look OK.” You console yourself by insisting that, “No one actually sees you like this. There’s just no way that other people’s perception of you is as warped as your own.”
But then you enter that college common room. The curtain is pulled back. You hear the unvarnished truth. You hear it delivered by someone who had no idea you were listening, had no reason to protect your feelings or to uphold social niceties, and had no reason to lie. You hear it delivered by a person with universally-accepted high sexual status.
The truth.
You can’t ignore it.
You fucking idiot. You actually do look like that thing staring you in the mirror. What you see is real. You actually are so physically blighted and deprived of masculinity that a girl will express genuine relief over her decision to not date you 4 years ago. That’s right, the idea of being with you is so corrosive that you can damage her status beyond time and space.
“I can’t believe I used to want to go out with him.”
One sentence that perfectly encapsulates my leper status, dispensed casually and dismissively, like one would note the weather. Completely soul crushing.
Looking back on it all, I’m actually relieved we never went out, because if we had, we would have both had to acknowledge my actual existence in that common room. We would have had to say hello to each other, look into each other’s eyes, make small talk, and pretend that we’re both not overcome by the cloying stench of my sub-humanity.
No, instead I pretend not to recognise her. I allow her to validate herself to others at my expense – after all, what else am I good for? In my most pathetic moments, I think to myself, ‘That is what it feels like to give pleasure to a woman. Your existence in the world caused a fleeting moment of pleasure, however twisted and obfuscated, in an attractive woman. You stud!’
[hr]
Cliffsnotes of My University Dorm Experience - A.K.A Welcome to hell
Live on campus in a co-ed dorm. Arrive two days late into the week-long orientation period, only to find that everyone has already formed their social groups. Not only that, almost everyone you meet on campus is more attractive than you, so no established group allows you to join them for fear of lowering their status. You become an effective outcast almost immediately.
- - - - - - -
All bathrooms on campus are co-ed. This means you are forever making hot girls uncomfortable with your subhuman appearance and ‘creepy loner’ reputation (even though the latter was essentially forced on you), and you are constantly amoged by Chads walking around with just their towels on. You try washing your hands at a sink while standing next to a Chad – you both look in the mirror and the juxtaposition of his slayer physique with your acne-ridden stick figure is just mind-blowing. It’s hard to believe you’re the same age and species.
- - - - - - -
You start shaving in the shower instead of at the sink because standing next to Chads is too emasculating. Moreover, the thought of a hot girl walking in and seeing your shirtless upper-body doubles your heart rate and makes you sweat. You do the best you can shaving in the shower, but you miss small spots here and there and your face and neck gets a little patchy, but what the fuck does it even matter, there’s no polishing a turd. After a few weeks of this you just give up and grow a neckbeard.
- - - - - - -
You take a risk and visit the college nightclub a couple of times. On one occasion you happen to be in close proximity to a drunk, sub-5 land-whale. For some inexplicable reason she turns and looks at you and begins to dance half-heartedly. In the spirit of social reciprocation you attempt to dance along, and although you have never danced before and you are painfully mechanical and awkward, for the first time in your life you realise that you are actually engaged in something akin to a male-female mating-ritual. Immediately your small penis becomes fully erect and your face and neck undergo vasocongestion (sex flush). You are simultaneously overcome with acute embarrassment at your body’s complete and total sexual capitulation, and with a powerful sense of self-awareness regarding the absurdity of the situation. You innately understand that, given sound body and mind, there is simply no way this girl would normally interact with you. You stop ‘dancing’ and leave immediately. The entire process from her turning around and you leaving takes no more than 45 seconds.
The next day you are eating lunch in the dining room alone when two of the land-whale’s friends approach you. The two friends tell you that land-whale is *not* interested in you and was only dancing with you because she was drunk. They repeatedly insist that you should “not read anything into it.” You reply in monotone, “I know”.
In other words, the sub-5 land-whale’s social group is convinced that you are a creep and a degenerate, the kind of low-life who would interpret any form of interaction as an invitation to begin a stalking campaign. Their assumption fills you with a burning rage and your eyes begin to fill with angry tears. Who the FUCK do you CUNTS think you are? It was YOU who WALKED AWAY, not her. YOU were the one preserved her reputation by leaving, not her. YOU did HER a favor. And yet! AND YET! now they can’t even grant you the common courtesy of being IGNORED. They have to strip you of any DIGNITY you may have had left; they have come up to you in public, rub it in your face; they have to make sure that you KNOW they think you’re disgusting.
- - - - - - -
For reasons you can only attribute to masochism, you try the nightclub a few more times. While playing a game of 8-Ball, two hot exchange students approach you and invite you to join them. You look over at their group and see that they are all 6’s and 7’s. You immediately recognize the incongruity of the situation (a skinny acne-cel manlet with a group of girls like that?) and come to the conclusion that you are being pranked. You say “No thanks”, intentionally lose your game of 8-Ball to get it over with, and leave the club to avoid more attempted public humiliations.
- - - - - - -
Eventually you stop waking at normal hours. You are only active at night and early morning so you can use the bathroom and shower without been seen by hot girls and Chads. If anyone enters the bathroom while you’re in there (god-forbid), you stand perfectly still and pretend as if you’re not there (my record is 25 minutes sitting on a toilet in dead silence). If you’re in the shower and the water is running, you extend the length of your showers until you’re absolutely positive the person has left.
- - - - - - -
Eventually you stop going to breakfast, lunch and dinner at the dining hall. You can’t stand to be seen by the happy and attractive people around you. You become fully nocturnal to minimise contact with other human beings.
- - - - - - -
Eventually you can hardly bear the thought of being seen by anyone on campus. You feel like a creep, a blight, a boil on the skin of the attractive sex-having society that is slowly choking you to death. You are a vampire and other human beings are garlic. You stop going to class. You stop going to the dining hall. You hold in your shits and piss in empty soda bottles so you don’t have to leave your room. You only come out at night to leave campus and get takeaway. You aimlessly drive the streets because you have nothing better to do. You fail your classes due to lack of attendance. You drop out of college. You return to live with your parents.
- - - - - - -
When your Dad comes to help you move out of college, he notices that one of your dorm neighbours (a female), offers to help move boxes. Your Dad, ever the optimist, assumes that she is either your girlfriend or someone you hooked up with, because why else would she help you? Your Dad is visibly happy that you have ‘made it’ with the opposite sex – a clear case of motivated reasoning and willful. Despite this, you make no effort to correct him. You allow your Dad to feel the pride of having a ‘stud’ son.
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