Ignored at the meeting by the monstrous chad because of the easily missed frequency of my voice, when I tried to be friendly and join the conversation. Just wanted to say that "drag" could mean male dressing as female, but also the other way, since you were asking. But I'm not heard, the words get lost cause my voice won't cut, even when I'm straining against paranoid modesty to boost the signal, make myself heard... but also, be casual cause it doesn't sound friendly forced. I can see the genes in that, my mom's smile a constructed wall of teeth - I think she fakes it to make it, but she does make something, she's happy enough with her social life. I'm not even upset at being ignored so much as looking like a pathetic loser who tried and failed to be part of the gang - then retreated instead of asserting himself. So I'm not noticed, but also seen to be a fool? Logic would say I'm either seen or not seen, but there's little logic in this.
Now neurosis can be bootstrapped to serial murder by the internet. That's why I used that word "chad" to signal I've just become familiar with incel culture, owing to a video of an outsider with a few inside insights, exploring and critiquing the newest sickest net craze.
I try to make up for my shameful loss of face they may or may not have noticed, by reading our meeting's preamble AGGRESSIVELY: Clear yet colloquial, leaning into the severed gerunds, routing edges with power tools. Still the wrong frequency. Can only do so much because of those millimeters of missing skull and the bone-structure dictating a chain of consequences from childhood, the sledge-hammer impact awareness of being the smallest guy in every group of peers, to the internalization of physical stature, to stillborn confidence that never had a chance to vitalize a personality. The guy who reminds me of the people I counter-hated in high school is sharing, so, here's some body language for you people who are good at that sort of thing: I'm swiping this text into my phone to distract myself from your rapacious voice.
Oh God. I'm already infected with incel-ese, I'm black pilled from just watching that ContraPoints video - and it was supposed to be a disinfectant, dark subject soothed with funny sunlight. Which I loved, but what stuck with me even more was that morbid relief of just baring the hard truths of love and sex and their evolutionary basement. It can be so clarifying, if I can see it as the sociological vectors that led to my insecurities, and not as Final Truth "because it hurts the most" as epistemic masochism tells me. It can be useful if I don't take it too far, like whoever that incel terrorist shit was who was called a "supreme gentleman" by the other incel terrorist shit. If there's one thing he wasn't, it's gentle - he doesn't get to be that, even if his gentle sensibilities were so tortured by life that he abandoned them in the end to vent rage with murder. Well then, guess he wasn't gentle after all. And he doesn't get to be a man either. Facing a difficult life of long lonely stretches with some stoicism is rather manly, regardless of whether you ever get the "got-laid" merit badge. Killing for self-expression isn't gentle, or manly, just gross, "like, so-gross-ah... like, wha'a freak-ah..." Now you've made their dumb comments legit, now they're deserved, sad for you, tragic for your victims. But they are yours at least, if nothing else is, you can own the dead cause you knew you couldn't ever have them alive, so let them be your legacy, your victims.
Luc was a gentle man. He did well with the ladies before I knew him, but in the divorced dad era he was often an incel - and haven't we all been there brother? Most of us? Some of us? But even then, he had his moments. This paisan, he had some balls on him, he got out there and tried, and once in a while goddamnit, he got himself some. And on those occasions he'd put his under-utilized talents to joyful employment. He wasn't cringing from the femoids, he wouldn't shroud them in black veils to spare himself the torture of their faces - even a 2.3 was worth a double-take, many ways to appreciate. We needn't go misogynist, a gentleman can see the even-worse situation of most women in the gauntlet of impossible standards. But that's why I found the video so fascinating, because there is a place for an under-represented slice of the male perspective, the history written by the losers, on blogger. Society could do to hear more from incels, problem being that, of course, they get wrung through the internet coming out "men's rights" activists at best, death-cultists at worst. There could be something good to make of this incel awareness, but it ends up in shooting sprees and van attacks. Just wonderful.
Everybody, look at my Crossfit body, is all I can think of her, even though as usual, she's got a great recovery message. Cue self-obsession tangent: What kind of cel am I? Let's say, wristcel. No, armcel, it's all about thin arms, that's my glass ceiling. "Armcel", my contribution to the culture, my toxic agitprop, sui-fuel for those who have the steel to end themselves. [I don't, and honestly, I envy their strength - if it's a real attempt it really is strength, like a gun in the mouth, can't be easy to pull that trigger]. I'll draw a stick figure, except no, cause I can't exaggerate lack of muscle on a stick figure, it will need to be a drawing with some limb-width baseline. Then I can put my likeness in a bell curve gutter next to that reference, Microsoft Paint catharsis, to upload for upvotes for bright side is suicide.
On my best days, I can get real honest, then articulate the honesty, though I've never gotten past some barriers protecting little reserves of ego you wouldn't even suspect I'm harboring - see how honest I am? Except for the reserves part. At my most hope-cel, I can think of this honesty [with style!] as a charm that could transcend hard limitations of skull to orbit sex appeal. And the stubborn faith that I have no faith in salvation through Crossfit persists - yeah it doesn't fit me, and I kinda like that I'm not into it, I got standards for myself, like it's not a good look to be looking to be good-looking - and always the shame of that, knowing how comforting it is to dismiss what I won't bother trying to obtain when it seems like a fucking fool's errand, and I'm not quixotic enough. Hey, that's my style, so fine, I'll own whatever void rushes in.