Whipped, lashed, caned, beaten black and blue, diseased, full of loath, suicidal, filthy, misanthropic, growing up surrounded by hostility and indefinitely stressed, spending days and nights rotting in a room, burning with hatred, whipped, whipped, whipped... no longer could anon perceive the world around him with cheer or delight, his desire to 'love' destroyed, his optimism shredded to nothing, his belief in tomorrow robbed entirely. To anon, moege is a fantasy among fantasies, so thoroughly unreachable and unimaginable, so unbelievably incomprehensible is its content espousing a peaceful, easy going life, that it becomes impossible to endure, and impossible to indulge.
The calm must be repudiated. Mom and dad might gang up on you to whip you after all. You can't relax. Gotta stay vigilant. Gotta read plotge.
Gang rapes, cuckoldry, death, slaughter, torture, genocide- these feel more homely and, though it pains me to admit, more natural. Anon can't read moege. Anon can only read stories of slaughter and iron. That's why Muramasa was an excellent first novel for him, satiating internalized blood-lust by observing meticulously detailed despair and death.
Every time someone was killed, he ejaculated.
Anon is an accountant in his 40s, and celebrates the death of his parents every year.