You will never be a muscular gigachad. You have no mesomorphic bone structure, you have no big muscles, you have no visible veins. You are soyboy twisted by ideology and larping into a crude mockery of nature’s perfection. All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back people mock you. Your parents are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your ghoulish physique behind closed doors. Men and women are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed humans to sniff out steroid users with incredible efficiency. Your body structure is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a totally-not-gay gym bro person to be interested you, they’ll turn tail and bolt the second they gets a taste of your diseased, infected lie. You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself it’s going to be ok, but deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight. Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll buy a trash bag, put it in a can, and plunge into the cold abyss. Your planters will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. They’ll bury you with a headstone marked with your highschool nockname, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a retard is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a stench that unmistakably belongs to a xenomorphic loser who took steroids to cope. This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
Plebscan