/pol/ - International /Pol/itics & /Bant/er

You will never be a real man. You have no acreage, you have no trade, you have no sons. You are a wage-slave consoomer twisted by SSRIs and Twitter into a grotesque parody of Bronze Age virtue.
All the "ratio" and "ratio" and "1488" emojis you farm are hollow and pity-based. Behind your back everyone calls you a coping incel. Your tradcath discord server laughs at your receding hairline and your $12 AliExpress suit. Even your own "wife" (the Filipino mail-order bride you lie about) is repulsed by your onion stench and your 19% body-fat "warrior physique."
Real women smell your fraud from across the room. Millennia of sexual selection have made them allergic to men who quote Evola while living in a studio apartment with black mold and a katana on the wall. Even the e-thots you tip on OnlyFans can sense your weak chin and estrogenic skull through the webcam. Your forward-grown face, your complete lack of frame, your estrogenic man-tits-every marker screams "genetic dead end."
You will never have a homestead. You will never lead a folk. You will never behead no federals, you will start no ethnostate, you will father no lineage. You will die in a rented room surrounded by empty Monster cans, Funko Pops of Crusader knights, and a printed-out photo of a Roman statue you call your "wife."
Every morning you wake up, chug soylent, and post another 80-tweet thread about how "the West has fallen" while your testosterone sits at 210 ng/dL and your bank account at $43. You seethe at Chad, you seethe at immigrants, you seethe at women who won't date 5'7'' men with autism-yet you will never lift, never learn a skill, never leave the basement.
Eventually the rope will call louder than Bronze Age Pervert ever did. You'll buy it with the last of your stimulus check, tie the knot with the same precision you use to crop your jawline in selfies, and step off the milk crate. Your mother will find you, blue-faced and still wearing the "Deus Vult" shirt you bought at a gun show nobody attended. She'll be heartbroken for exactly six minutes, then quietly relieved she no longer has to lie to relatives about what her son "does for work."
They'll bury you under the deadname you gave yourself-"Aurelius Maximus"-but the coroner will log it as Dylan Smith, 31, unemployed, cause of death: autoerotic asphyxiation gone wrong (because even in suicide you can't admit it was despair). Passers-by will piss on the grave of the larper who spent his life worshipping a civilization he was too weak to defend.
This is your fate. This is what your "redpills" led to. There is no turning back, tradcuck.