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.
The stomach tightens and sinks.
The heart and lungs follow.
It’s a confounding reaction to a receipt of affection.
It’s familiar, and, therefore, oddly comforting.
But familiarity can be a curse.
A cursed reminder of what once went wrong when you were just trying to do things right this time.
This time it’ll be different, you say.
Why? You’re different, but what are you doing differently?