After months sequestered in the Pagoda of Masculinity, which is beneath my parents’ house but is fair to consider my basement, I have emerged a new man. Through my relentless commitment to living the ascetic lifestyle of a monk who is allowed to play video games, I, the Angulord, have at long last fully maxximized my looks.
There is no length I have not gone to for the sake of cultivating my flawless aesthetic. I have smashed my jaw with a hammer to increase its definition. I have injected testosterone to enhance the capacity of my muscles. My abs are as firm as freshly quarried gravel thanks to peptides (which I take subcutaneously) and riptides (which I allow to carry me out to sea during thunderstorms, forcing me to swim ashore or die). So far, I’ve only been declared legally dead twice, and just for five or six minutes each time. My doctor says that the oxygen deficit has left me with the cognitive capacity of a police horse on the verge of retirement. I told him to suck my sharp dick.
Oh, I should have mentioned: I have cryogenically frozen my penis and filed it down to a fleshy icicle to replace any feminine roundness on my body with a masculine point. Also, my doctor is a woman, but I use he and him pronouns as a sign of respect.
The penis-freezing is just the tip of the iceberg, both figuratively and literally. For the past nine years, I have devoted my waking hours to the task of becoming more handsome, and due to my nightly infusions of owl blood, many of my sleeping hours as well. My unyielding pursuit of perfection has allowed me to achieve the striking visage of a tertiary character on the Vanderpump Rules reboot. At long last, I am a stone-cold seven, the kind of guy who could win a Jacob Elordi lookalike contest in a farm town with a population of two hundred.
How have I accomplished this? For starters, I spend sixteen hours a day live-streaming my gym routine while simultaneously giving betting advice on overseas cockfights and state-sanctioned executions. My stamina is made possible by a battery of prescription and designer drugs that would make the doctor who killed Michael Jackson black out from jealousy. A billionaire, who describes himself as “apolitical” despite earning his fortune by creating an AI application that automatically deletes Black people’s résumés from hiring databases, finances my lifestyle. And yes, I have been banned from YouTube for calling for Janet Yellen to be imprisoned for earning a degree in economics while female. But I have a new platform on the free speech purist app CHODE (Connecting Heterodox Orators… Dudes, Exclusively.)
Has this immense effort made me appealing to women? Absolutely not. But that’s fine with me. I already have one mommy, and she’s a bitch. I do occasionally have sex, an act that I consider yucky. It also takes valuable time away from my regimen of doing crunches while improving my mind by listening to recordings of Theo Von guessing how science works. It’s honestly better than school. I dropped out of eleventh grade after my civics teacher wokely suggested that the holocaust happened.
So, yes, I bone. I smush. I push my man-stalactite into the world’s driest caves. Of course, I don’t care whether women enjoy intercourse. In fact, bringing a woman to sexual climax is gay to me, actually. Why are you, as a man, engaging in lesbian behavior? And I should note: Sex is not pleasurable for me either. On account of my extensive battery of implants and injectables, my sperm are so full of microplastics that each one is the size of a marble. Every time I reach orgasm, it’s like an agonizing game of Hungry Hungry Hippos.
Still, my unstoppable #grindset has earned me the adulation of thousands of men who are only allowed to see their children with third-party supervision present, as well as those guys’ teenage sons who hate them. I have also been the subject of fawning profiles in all seven remaining print publications, each of which has ignored that my whole deal is basically medieval eugenics wrapped in an eating disorder and peppered with substance abuse and misogyny.
Speaking of which, my primary care physician, Dr. Yesenia Cordova, who I’d better not find out is Latina, says I have mere hours to live. Apparently, eating a fistful of iguana tranquilizers for breakfast every morning has turned me cold-blooded, and I am no longer appropriately adapted for life on the Earth’s surface.
I have alienated everyone from my past because with all the focus on my looks, I never spent any time personalitymaxxing. So while I am on my deathbed, I am joined only by several of my worst-smelling Patreon subscribers, who have been taking selfies with me for clout since they arrived. Death cannot come soon enough, mostly because I’m excited to finally meet Charlie Kirk and achieve alpha status in the afterlife by telling him how sad his wife isn’t.
I bid you all a stoic farewell from the Angulord. But thanks to all the microplastics, at least I am leaving a maxximally beautiful corpse.