This isn't a cry for help. It’s a tombstone built over the ruins of what used to be a human being. If you’re reading this, you’re staring into the abyss of total failure. I’m done playing your "normal life" game—every rule is a backstab and every path leads to zero.
I. Genetic Error & The Burden of Being Born a loser. My first betrayal was taking a breath. No dad? Not a tragedy, just freedom from the "male strength" meme. But for my family, it was the end. My mom sacrificed everything just to keep me breathing, and all I feel is searing guilt for being a lead weight dragging her down while she drowned in debt. My birth was a biological glitch. My existence is just parasitism disguised as life.
II. The Second Betrayal: Simulating Normie Life Spent three years larping as a "normal person" just to be worthy of a woman who could never grasp my darkness. Two different worlds. I tried to simulate her reality, and it was a betrayal of my own soul. Result? Not enough. Her rejection was the final spit in the face. Enjoy your mediocrity.
III. The Third Betrayal: Poverty & Chemical Salvation Rotting in the mud. Poor as a church mouse, living hand-to-mouth in a system that deleted me long ago. When you can’t afford rent or dignity, drugs are the only thing left.
LSD shattered my reality and showed me the eldritch truth.
Meth gave me the spite to hate you all without getting tired.
Ketamine detached me from this flesh-prison.
Weed just put a veil over the rot. "Friends" left the moment I stopped vibrating at their frequency. Only Rivotril keeps its word—it switches me off into the silence I deserve.
IV. Sacrification: The Ritual (Bullet & Nails) Words are just noise. To prove how deep the betrayal goes, I must betray my own body. A self-inflicted gunshot through the forearm isn’t "attention seeking"—it’s physical proof of my disgust. I don’t fear the pain. It’s a stigma that can’t be erased. The plan ends with total surrender: I will be nailed to a wooden frame like a scarecrow in a dead field. A burlap sack over my head—no identity, no face. Just a monument to suffering. My blood on the fabric is the last message to a world that never wanted me.
V. Final Adoration: Rotting as High Art This manifest is my final resignation. I owe you nothing. My suffering isn't "aesthetic"—it's filth, blood, and shadow. Crucified and shot, I’ll finally be real. Pain is the only thing that never betrayed me. Death is just the logical end to the rot that started the day I was born. Even if it costs me my life, the ritual will be completed.
Support the descent: https://ko-fi.com/thatmikael
