Anonymous
(ID: wUxD/l80)
6/13/2025, 1:12:36 AM
No.507143553
[Report]
>>507143595
>>507143611
>>507144237
>>507144428
>>507144760
>>507144822
>>507145050
>>507145110
>>507145438
>>507145712
6/13/2025, 1:12:36 AM
No.507143553
[Report]
>>507143595
>>507143611
>>507144237
>>507144428
>>507144760
>>507144822
>>507145050
>>507145110
>>507145438
>>507145712
If Only Raymond Knew
Raymond is Bald. Capital B. Not just hairless—but bald. Chromed out like a bowling trophy left in the rain. The kind of bald that radiates loss. The kind of bald that makes people assume he knows Python. The kind of bald that precedes him in the room like a felony charge.
He majored in Fine Arts. Not Graphic Design. Not something usable. Just Fine Arts. Charcoal nudes and papier-mâché despair. He tells people he pivoted. Into tech. Into “engineering.” But he is not an engineer. They just make him do engineer things because he looks like a nerd. Thick glasses. Bald dome. Wears a hoodie with an old Linux logo on it. They assume competence. But he is lost. He copy-pastes from Stack Overflow like a priest mouthing Latin he doesn't believe in.
He doesn’t get laid. Hasn’t in years. Sometimes he claims he’s focusing on “himself.” But he isn’t. He eats frozen fish. He scrolls porn until it stops working. Then scrolls more. Hoping.
His console lineage reads like a postmortem: Genesis 32X N64 PC. Each step a little more isolated. A little more hopeless. He played Knuckles’ Chaotix earnestly. He thought Turok was a spiritual experience. He still talks about Morrowind like it came out last week. Mods it. Lives in it.
He is not a real man. He is not a boy. He is something else.
A transitional fossil.
A case study in masculine entropy.
A warning sign with a Steam account.
He believes he’s doing fine. That he’s treading water. That things are fine. But he doesn’t know. If only he knew. If only he knew how Losery he is. How every coworker smirks when he leaves the room. How every woman swipes left before his photo loads. How his life is the kind that makes suburban mothers whisper “Thank God it’s not my son.”
He thinks he’s just in a rut.
But the rut is a grave.
And he brought a pillow.
He majored in Fine Arts. Not Graphic Design. Not something usable. Just Fine Arts. Charcoal nudes and papier-mâché despair. He tells people he pivoted. Into tech. Into “engineering.” But he is not an engineer. They just make him do engineer things because he looks like a nerd. Thick glasses. Bald dome. Wears a hoodie with an old Linux logo on it. They assume competence. But he is lost. He copy-pastes from Stack Overflow like a priest mouthing Latin he doesn't believe in.
He doesn’t get laid. Hasn’t in years. Sometimes he claims he’s focusing on “himself.” But he isn’t. He eats frozen fish. He scrolls porn until it stops working. Then scrolls more. Hoping.
His console lineage reads like a postmortem: Genesis 32X N64 PC. Each step a little more isolated. A little more hopeless. He played Knuckles’ Chaotix earnestly. He thought Turok was a spiritual experience. He still talks about Morrowind like it came out last week. Mods it. Lives in it.
He is not a real man. He is not a boy. He is something else.
A transitional fossil.
A case study in masculine entropy.
A warning sign with a Steam account.
He believes he’s doing fine. That he’s treading water. That things are fine. But he doesn’t know. If only he knew. If only he knew how Losery he is. How every coworker smirks when he leaves the room. How every woman swipes left before his photo loads. How his life is the kind that makes suburban mothers whisper “Thank God it’s not my son.”
He thinks he’s just in a rut.
But the rut is a grave.
And he brought a pillow.
