the manifesto of a helpless faggot

    I'm tired. It's always the same. The same mistakes. The same dreadful feelings (dread, that's a nice word). Maybe it's that backlash thing they talk about on video essays. Who knows? Really, who knows. I certainly fucking don't. Why am I writing this in English? Why should I care that I'm writing it in English? I mean, fuck, I spent SO MUCH time of my life learning this shit back in the day. Might as well make some good fucking use of it, right?

    So we're talking about feelings again. Why do I always feel trapped, why? Trapped. Alone. Like the bottom of a goddamn well. Like those in The Legend of Zelda - always full of ghosts and spirits and shit. Yeah, I've been off my meds, and it shows. But I felt so good. I felt happy for myself. I didn't feel SO miserable like I am feeling now. Feelings, feelings, goddamn feelings. It's a it easier to talk about them in this stream-of-consciousness style. I've mispelled consciousness so many times trying to write this. I just need a hug. I need someone to tell me that it's all ok. Or at least that it's all GOING to be fine, someday soon, because I'm tired. It's always the same. The same mistakes. The same dreadful feelings (dread, such a nice word).

    Maybe I'm actually bipolar and don't know about it. The tiniest of things just set me OFF, you know, like a wave crashing down on the shore of Solitude Island. It's that goddamn fatalism ContraPoints talked about on the incels video. It's just that I can't list the order of fatalist thoughts I have or I'll expose myself way too much - even for this website's standards. Maybe when it's all said and done I'll edit this with what I have in mind. Had. In mind. We're talking about the hypothetical future here.

    Also, my dog died. Her name was Bebel (I think I talked about her a bit before). She got in a fight with a bigger dog. Didn't resist for much longer, apparently she had heart murmurs. Now she's buried. Dead. My dog died. God, why. I loved her so much, you know. So fucking much. Now I'll never hear her cry again. Never pet her little plump belly again. She'll never scream for me to open the doors when I come home, or beg like hell for a piece of meat. The house will be so silent now. And that is the pits. The *fucking* pits. Everytime I remember it, I want to cry. I want to be hugged. To tell someone how I'm feeling. But I guess then everyone will get tired of me real soon. Why am I like this? Fucking sadboy freshman piece of shit.

    Incels. Maybe I'm an incel. Maybe he's right. Sometimes he calls me an incel. I know it's for jokes, but coming from him, being who he is... it just hurts, like he's rubbing it on my face. We're a bit more friends, now. Sometimes I feel he just wants to turn me into an uglier version of him. "Watch this", "read that". Should I just cave in? I never had much of an identity. And things are working pretty well for him. As far as everybody knows, I'm the tall bald guy that offers tererĂª to bystanders. That cries on Twitter from time to time. He said my tweets are funny. Maybe he likes watching me suffer! I know it's not true, it's just dishumane of me to say these things about others.

    As I write this, there's rap music playing (which I hate), and my phone keeps buzzing. The messages, though, are not for me. Sometimes I think they'll just never be. Why would anyone want to talk to me? Nobody ever cares about what I have to say. I'm just fated to be a lost voice in the crowd. I just want someone to listen to me and tell me everything is going to be ok. I want to feel loved. To be loved. Is it too much to ask? Lady Gaga says there's enough love to go around; then who's hoarding it all? Maybe it's him. He's always talking about his exes, his hookups, he's always busy. Must be so nice to have all this love for oneself. God, this is borderline obsessive. I can't be so envious of a friend. Then again, I always was this kind of loser person.

    This... it's not healthy. I'm definitely not healthy. What I'm feeling... it's stirring deep waters. Dark, dark waters. Dense, like Chinese ink. And I don't want to wake up what sleeps in those waters.