The room was littered with half crushed cans of Mountain Dew, used tissues crusted together with assorted bodily fluids, and old computer parts picked up from thrift stores, still waiting to be repaired. The fitted cotton jersey bedsheets had long since been kicked to the side, and the bare mattress, lying directly on the carpeted floor, revealed all manners of stains. The only comforter was a wool moving blanket. The room had no windows; it was in the basement, and the overhanging lightbulb had burned out some time ago. A psychedelic screensaver on the dual monitor and a lamp without a shade in the corner provided enough light to justify his indifference in replacing it. Jerry called his computer setup his “battle station.” From there he would spend his days arguing with strangers scattered throughout the world, venting his frustrations with his disheveled life in the basement, blaming everyone for his misfortune— except, of course, for himself.
Jerry had been a straight-B student at the local public high school. His favorite subject was math, until he got to pre-calculus. Allegedly, in 11th grade, he had been placed in a higher math class than he was qualified for due to a complete fluke of a high score on the placement test, and it had taken weeks and a some failed quizzes to realize the mistake, at which point it was too late to do anything about his grade. For a short time, he went to community college, but left after two mediocre semesters. It was no use sticking around when he wasn’t going to make the grades he needed to get into a four year university, anyway. He insisted that his low grades were due to his “femininazi” sociology professor who had it out for him and his “liberal cuck” of an English TA, because he wasn’t a beta like the rest of them. He, like all white men these days, was the victim of discrimination.
For a while, he got a part time gig at Hobby Lobby, but minimum wage wasn’t going to get him out of his mom’s basement, and his cunt of a manager wouldn’t stop talking down to him. Besides, it was a travesty that a guy with a 160 IQ (according to an online test) was wasting his time with those losers. I mean, he had such a profound and sophisticated knowledge of the world that he even understood all of the references in Rick and Morty. Now he was reaching his thirties, unemployed, and still living with his mom. On a nurse’s salary, she could barely afford to support both of them, once the mortgage was factored in, let alone save for retirement. Whatever, that bitch deserves it, he thought.
A third rate psychiatrist may have deduced from his unjustified resentment toward his mother that he held some strange beliefs about women. Truth be told, at 28 years old, he had never had a girlfriend, and was still a virgin. It wasn’t his fault. All of those hypergamous sluts would never go for an incel like him. All he wanted was to find his 18 year old virgin looksmatch, but all of those Staceys just wanted their Chads by the time they hit 14. He’d read up on The Red Pill’s pickup artist advice and it had never worked, no matter how much he negged college aged girls and exploited their innate desire to be subservient to men. This would all be resolved if we just enforced monogamy, he sighed and thought to himself, as he cuddled up against his waifu pillow.
