In other words, you are a sadistic psychopath.
As for the assertion that "normies" don't know "the plight of horror, pain and death", let me respond with a slightly updated post I made recently.
One day in spring when I was eighteen, when my mother was at a spa vacation and we were having great bonding time with our father, my father called for me, convulsing in horrible abdominal pain, saying he had called an ambulance. I called for my mother to come from the spa and lived through the tensest evening of my life. I will never forget this day.
He had necrotising pancreatitis, and for several weeks, he was at death's door. The entire time, it was pressing heavily on my mind at all times. At university, I lived in constant fear that I would receive a call that he had died. The one time I visited him in the hospital, I could not stand the sight of his misery and sobbed uncontrollably.
Worse, it turned out he had liver cancer. None of the treatments he received managed to cure him, only delay the inevitable. I had to watch helplessly as his body and mind deteriorated.
While I was not there when he died because I had to go to university, I was there in the morning, when he collapsed trying to leave the bed. My mother and I carried him to the couch. I heard the death rattle, a dreadful sound forever engraved in my memory, and I knew it would be over. It was a nice summer day. I was nineteen. He was only fifty-four.
And now, I am twenty-four. Last summer, I nearly died of necrotising pancreatitis myself. I spent one-hundred-and-ten days in Intensive Care, most of it under medication so heavy I cannot remember. But this void is not blissfully empty, but filled with nightmares. I had to undergo twenty-eight surgeries. I am in rehab now, but I am still not restored. There still is a hole in my belly (though unlike what you may expect, it does not hurt, actually). As a side effect of the pancreatitis, half of my large intestine had to be removed, so I have a stoma now (though it will be reconnected eventually). I have a decubitus in the sacral areea, small but deep. I still cannot walk by myself and can only stand for a short time. I will need to take digestion enzymes for the rest of my life, and I probably will turn diabetic as well eventually. I also miss my poor father more than ever.
So don't tell me that I do not know the plight of horror, pain and death.
And even if you try to claim that inceldom is a special, unique kind of suffering:
I, too, have suffered throughout my teenage years and my early twenties from great sexual frustration and romantic hopelessness and the fear that no woman would ever want me, as well as self-loathing over my obesity and messiness.
Yet I was never tempted to succumb to darkness, nor did I ever turn into a misogynist. Eventually, the longing got so strong that I was forced to finally make my peace with it. And ever since that breakthrough, I feel so much better. Yes, I still lack the companionship, love and intimacy I long so strongly after, but the hope and confidence that I will eventually find the love of my life keeps me strong,
