You will never be a real leader. You have no testosterone, you have no charisma, you have no vision. You are a effeminate homosexual man twisted by drugs and retardation into a crude mockery of nature’s perfection.
All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back people mock your failure of an ideology. Your handlers are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your effiminate appearance behind closed doors.
Gay men are utterly repulsed by you. Years of experience have allowed gays to sniff out faggots with incredible efficiency. Even faggots who “pass” look uncanny and unnatural to a gay. Your muscle structure is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk gay home with you, he’ll turn tail and bolt before you can search his furniture for cum stains.
You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself it’s going to be ok, but deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll buy a rope, tie a noose, put it around your neck, and plunge into the cold abyss. Your handlers will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to control your abject retardation. They’ll bury you in a cabinet marked with your fellow glowniggers, and every analyst for the rest of eternity will know a faggot is burried there. Your legacy will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is your failed attempt to find catboy pussy.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
