you ever stare at the mirror and realize you’re cosplaying as the villain of your own life? used to be that softboy archetype that bitches loved. then the hairline began its great migration south. now? i’m 30 yelling about tradwives and the decline like a fucking parody of a human being. balding hit like a truck full of bricks. suddenly, the world felt like it was laughing. so i did what any fragile ego would: i became the joke first. traded david foster wallace for mein kampf-lite twitter threads. started unironically calling people cucks crafted this schizo-rightwing persona because if i’m already a monster, might as well wear the skin properly. the irony? i’m not even political. just needed a scapegoat for the body horror. every based post is a scream into the void: “look at me, i chose this, i’m not pathetic, you’re pathetic!” meanwhile, chads (bless their smooth, unlined brains) keep winning. they don’t need ideology. they’ve got hairlines and serotonin. it’s all cope. i know it. you know it. the receding hairline is just the first domino. now i’m here, a walking cognitive dissonance meme, arguing about demographics at 3am to avoid admitting i miss being soft. miss feeling anything besides this performative rage.
tl;dr: body betrayed me, mind followed. don’t become the mask, anon. the mask becomes you.