An Open Letter to a Late Stage Incel
I hear you, sitting in your room, typing furiously away about how lonely you are and how angry it makes you that, for some unexplained reason, women don’t find you companionable.
I mean, instead of looking hard at yourself and your behavior, your borderline social retardation, your obsessive compulsive mania, it’s just easier to find someone else to blame.
America has always sold itself like a potluck dinner—“Bring your culture! Bring your grandma’s recipes! Bring the funky spices we can pretend we invented!”