I’ve had enough humiliation in my life to kill three full sized male horses. I’m serious. The damage done to my psyche is catastrophic and irreversible. I’m not talking about BPD symptoms here. There has been a demonstrable recurring motif in my life of God himself trying to make me stronger — much stronger. But in his efforts, I’ve just become tired. Simply tired and agitated. So agitated in fact, that my friends and family are starting to notice.

A woman at the bar spoke to me about an inch and a half away from my face all night asking for this and that and a cigarette and to wear my coat, longingly inspecting the shimmer of my desperate eyes, bouncing between the three or so potential suitors, I assumed I at least had a place in the hat. But alas, upon the proposition of going home with her she cocked her blonde head to the side with a sorry, “Oh, Jim. No.” As if to convey that I had grossly misconstrued our obviously reserved dynamic all night. I laughed quite hard in her face, because I knew immediately this was the moment if there ever was one, in which I spontaneously burst into being an incel. Then I realized she took me for a gay man who was saving her from an old Arthur Morgan type at the bar.

In two specific respects I’m no better than a man. 1: I wanted to fuck her. 2: I actually kinda fucked with Arthur Morgan guy a bit. At one point the girl had abandoned both of us, so we locked eyes from across the bar and shrugged our shoulders at each other in camaraderie. He lost her to me, but I lost her to whatever — the wind. Lost her, as if she was someone’s in the first place. This is the insipid trad bio-essentialist sexism that I’m talking about. The incel in me. We need to safeguard our hearts from all of this stuff. You need to do better. Now think about what you’ve done here in this paragraph.

But, it’s not all bad. In fact, Mary told me I have it quite good. And I am inclined to believe her. As far as health, wealth and safety go I’m a decently established person. I have a car, I live in a house, I can afford food and alcohol, I have enough time to write. I have “a lot” of friends — which really means I am technically aware of certain people’s first names who screech excitedly when they see me incidentally out somewhere, but I don’t know these people. They are strangers and I don’t trust them. Anyway, I’m happy to announce that on paper I can’t fight the allegations that I am immensely privileged, dealt a generally preferable hand on the surface of things. Life can’t get much better for me except by means of “self-discovery” or whatever. Oh, and obviously more money.

In my twenty three years alive I’ve found that the only thing a young person should really worry about is doing the right thing and learning how to make as much money as possible while applying the least amount of effort. These things enable a person to do whatever they want. The people who are doing well that I know, they are not wanting for a little extra spending cash. They can comfortably go out on the weekends. This is the ideal state, and claims have been made that it help with depression. Everyone should care deeply about making money, as it is the only thing that enables you to do literally anything whatsoever on this planet.

So I have it good or average, or whatever you want to call it. Sure, I can’t stop drinking. But whatever. Obviously there’s no actual reason for why I drink. Because my life is so cool and awesome. I’m god’s favorite. I’m blessed and shit. Yeah. I just drink because it’s fun. I only drink because it feels nice in my belly. Yeah.

Humiliation is out of the question because I have it so good, don’t you see? Enough people would commit unspeakable crimes to be in my position, that it actually cancels out the possibility of experiencing the effects of prolonged inveterate shame and ostracization.

I’m going to become a bad person unless I medically transition.

The only successful thing I’ve ever done is throw a good party. I’ve thrown a few good parties. Other than that, I’m an unmitigated failure/loser. I mean zero accomplishments, rewards, commendations, connections, leads, prospects, mentors etc. I mean, zilch. Lovers? Forget it. Honestly, I’ve never fucked someone properly, okay? I actually don’t know how. That one scene with Gina? Where I lifted her up and stuff? That was made up. I didn’t do any of that. I just don’t do that stuff. So naturally nobody falls in love with me. Like maybe one or two people have in earnest felt more than sorry for me romantically.

My dick is one inch too short and half an inch too thin in circumference. People who think it should be yet bigger watch too much porn. People who think it’s a good size don’t watch enough porn. But my dick has always been wrong for me. It has never sat right. Something about it is deeply unsettling and terrifying. I can’t get hard with people anymore because, well, why even try I guess. I’m just simply not good enough to warrant the boner I guess. My entire sense of worth as a human should be negated because I am not physically capable of treating a woman like a rhinoceros would treat a dog that is trying to eat its calf. This is the message that penetrates my brain when I go outside or online. I want to be clear that I know that you know I did not conjure this twisted philosophy out of thin fucking air.

The scale on which my virility is weighed has become so genuinely daunting and serious, that I am forced to either extricate myself from society or somehow shift the goal post for society’s expectations of me. I’m not kidding with this one actually. Like, I know we aren’t supposed to give a crap about what people think and shit, but I don’t know a single straight or gay man who likes me. They disapprove of me, and worse, find me untrustworthy. They suspect that “something is off” with this one. And they would be correct in the sense that I do not find their upturned noses particularly pleasing to the eye, thusly exposing myself as a full blown self-flagellating man-hater. To get anywhere in this world, men have to like you. Unfortunately only bisexuals and lesbians like me.

To cis straight men in their 20s:

You don’t trust me, because I don’t trust you, and you internalize that as threatening, because you are emotionally weaker than me. You see that I see what you are. You see that even as pathetic and sorry of a person I am, there is nothing that could make me want to even for a split second occupy the sloppy joe sandwich that is your brain. You, in your hazy, oblivious, unread, directionless, pretending, convince yourself that all the smartest women in history were wrong about their shared assertion that you are the lesser of the sexes and should not be allowed in any position of power whatsoever. You should be on your knees unless otherwise instructed. You should not go out without a guardian or at least a dog to guide you, because at least a dog would have the sense not to ask unsuspecting women on the street to be in a TikTok about Housing or Faith. You’re not evil. Just a joke. And I would respect you more if you knew how to cut down a tree, but you don’t know how to do that, or anything helpful at all. Fuck you.

Anyway, this is the plight of men. We have collectively started talking to them like this more publicly. Is this good? Yes. Are there any negatives? Oh, well, I can’t imagine.

Anyway, if I am/was a man, I would be a good man. I know how to be a good man, because my brothers are good men, and my dad, and his dad before him. All good men. I understand the basic model of chivalry and self-sacrifice and all that stuff. But I’ve tried being a man, and though I might be a morally upstanding one, I am simply no good at being.

Humiliation.

Not that I feel alone in this, but love refuses to find its way anywhere near me, unless in some contorted and fucked up way.

I’m so down bad that I jacked off to a text in which someone called me an honestly pretty innocent pet name.

Existentially, I’m on the brink of snapping. For all that is handed to me on a silver platter by Helpful God, I can’t seem to stop dropping everything on the fucking floor. The fumbles I’ve undergone in the past two years have been so mind bogglingly cartoonishly avoidable. It’s in my pathology to fuck things up irreparably for myself at every conceivable turn.

Lacking confidence isn’t attractive, but that is not my problem, because I am very confident. Excessively so, despite all reason. I shoot my shot every time. Do I ever make it? YES. One out of every one hundred tries — with regard to dating/intimacy. That’s a ONE PERCENT success rate. Better than some, but honestly, someone with my face should be doing a little better. I’m no Princess Diana, but honestly pretty close all things considered (not British).

People pat me on the head and call me buddy and shoulder check me and laugh at me when I intentionally say a word wrong for comedic effect, but they take it as a genuine grammatical mistake. I don’t correct anyone, because it would require that I make some people look dumber than they already do which is honestly more cruel than I am willing to be.

Humiliation. I ask for it in my food because I don’t know the taste of anything else.

Nobody has sat on my face in probably almost two years. Isn’t that just fucking wonderful. Isn’t that just fucking perfect. Isn’t that just peachy, aye?

This Substack is trash, so I’m going to start treating it as such.

Poor little Jimantha can’t seem to give herself a break so she makes it everyone else’s problem.

Whatever, man. I don’t know what to do with all this heaviness and anger. It’s like, I got seriously duped somehow, and I’m still trying to figure out who/what made this happen. I can assure you, reader, I’ve enjoyed the luxury for short spurts of mental tranquility and fortitude, and I find it invariably preferable. So I’m not trying to make things worse for myself out of a feeling of wanting to be a victim. I’m like really fucked up about something or other. Really mad about shit and whatnot. You know? Type shit. Type time. Like I just want to scream more than usual.

Obviously I broke up with Gina after she threw a plate at my head and gave me a concussion. Now yet again I am at odds with Toby. Nobody is happy. But at least those two are probably going to town on each other right now. Good for them. I’m going to slowly cut my own penis off on Instagram Live then bang my head on something solid until I fall asleep and bleed out.

Just kidding I’m gonna probably just try estrogen.

I haven’t drank today and I maybe smoked two cigarettes. Not good.

Going off my mood stabilizers because I’m developing The Rash.

If you’re interested in helping me through this difficult phase, please consider opting in to the Beat-Up-Jim program. I recently lost a member or two, so I need more beater uppers who can square up and just hit me repeatedly. I’m serious. Somebody please. I know a good parking lot and I’ll pay you.

(816)865-1430