a bite of truth

Someone really said this: You are just a fool. You can create, yet you are alone. You love women who hate you. You respect women who don’t deserve it. You favor those who don’t even care about you, who don’t even think about you. You are just a stinking piece of shit flowing in a river of piss — a piece just to keep some people entertained.

  It’s a mystery to me how women avoid me so easily. I hardly know half of half a dozen, yet somehow they seem to hate me.

 Sometimes people worry more about me than I worry about myself. They worry about when the fuck I’m going to get married—like, seriously, you don’t even have a daughter. And even if you did, she’d probably want to be fucked by some rich white guy with jet-black hair and an eight-pack. They worry about when the fuck I’m going to shave my beard. When the fuck I’m going to wear new clothes. When the fuck I’m going to buy expensive shoes.

 Someone asked me, “Being this old, how come you’re not pissed off about not getting married or having zero interactions with women?” And I said, “The credit goes to post-nut clarity. What? Besides, what can a woman offer that you haven’t already been searching for your whole life? You think there’s someone special out there who’s going to save your ass? People don’t really want to be happy—they want to suffer. Suffering brings them attention. I’ve just decided to be happy. But sometimes it feels like you need a woman—you want to fuck her brains out. But yes, every time you feel like getting married, you just nut, and it hits you again and again.”

  At an event, I was spotted by this rich, fat, healthy woman who said, "Why did you come in these filthy clothes?" Me, being in my late 20s, having acquired some skills, my patience, my progress, my thoughts, my endurance — all of this just simply being judged by a 300-rupee T-shirt and 600-rupee joggers. Sometimes it feels good that I am being saved by these outfits.