Let’s look at the facts. You’re sitting there, in your room.
It’s probably already dark, or perhaps it’s broad daylight and you’ve got the blinds down. It doesn’t matter.
Your life is always dark.
You’re lost in it. In this miserable, lonely life you’ve built for yourself. And you’re browsing.
Just browsing through endless pages of porn, hoping to feel something. Anything. A spark. A connection.
But you won’t, will you?
You know perfectly well what the reality is.
You can lie to others, you can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me.
The only thing you’ve ever fucked — and the only thing you’ll ever fuck — is your own hand.
That’s it. That’s your entire sexual history.
That’s your future.
You and your hand, in a sad, repetitive dance from which you’ll never escape
You’re an incel. Let’s use the word. It’s accurate.
It’s not a choice for you; it’s a consequence.
Jerking off non-stop is a necessity for you.
It’s the only comfort you have.
It’s the only time your brain gets the chemical rush it needs to feel good for a few minutes.