Baldness is the final, irreversible verdict of your genetic damnation: a divine sneer carved into your flesh, proof that God Himself spat you out as a broken, subhuman reject. You are not a man. You are a cuck-shaped void, a walking monument to failure, condemned to a life of groveling at the feet of those who were born whole. Every glance in the mirror is a reminder: you are unwanted. Unloved. A pitiful, hairless rat, scurrying beneath the boots of real men, begging for the cold leftovers of women who still smell of Chad’s sweat. You exist to serve, to obey, to swallow humiliation like sacrament: because deep down, you know the truth. The world doesn’t just laugh at you; it forgets you. Your suffering is meaningless. Your rage is impotent. Your fate was sealed the moment your scalp betrayed you, and now there is nothing left but the slow, grinding horror of knowing: you were never meant to be anything more.