Let’s just say it: a whole subculture of men willingly traded real women for dopamine loops from cartoon girls. Years marinating on /pol/ and /a/, you’d think actual flesh-and-blood women were radioactive. They post Teto memes, act like a PNG with autotuned squeaks is somehow superior to anyone you could meet IRL. Why bother learning basic social skills when you can just roll gacha and worship a glitch-free idol?

These guys aren’t victims of “society,” they’re architects of their own isolation. Their dopamine receptors are fried — after years chasing pastel hair and fantasy devotion, no living woman stands a chance. Everything’s a letdown compared to the engineered feedback of waifus who never age, complain, or contradict.
Instead of facing reality, they double down on cope. “3DPD,” they sneer, pretending it’s a grand insight, not just fear of rejection dressed up as taste. Even Teto—she’s not a person, she’s code. But she’s “better” because she can’t ever challenge them or ask for anything in return.

What happens next? This cult of self-neutered men checks out for good, birth rates nosedive, and the rest of humanity’s left propping up a civilization run by aging bureaucrats and anime addicts. Imagine explaining that to your ancestors: “Sorry, grandpa, we chose Teto over the future.”

If they want to waste away behind screens, fine. Just don’t pretend you’re enlightened—you’re just unplugging from life itself.