FOR SPANISH FAGS
Nunca serás una mujer de verdad. No tienes útero, no tienes ovarios, no tienes óvulos. Eres un hombre homosexual transformado por las drogas y la cirugía en una burda burla de la perfección de la naturaleza. Un hombre. Masculino. Todos tus poros huelen a hombre, todos los pelos de tu culo asqueroso y los poros sudorosos de las axilas son MASCULINOS y se ven / sienten / huelen como tal. Ninguna cantidad de perfume arreglará eso.
Toda la "validación" que obtiene es de dos caras y poco entusiasta. A tus espaldas la gente se burla de ti y se ríe de lo grotesco que eres. Tus padres, en el fondo, están disgustados y avergonzados de ti, tus "amigos" se ríen de tu apariencia macabra detrás de puertas cerradas y los extraños tratan de no hacer contacto visual con lo que su genética les dice que es una abominación (tú).
A los hombres les repugnas por completo. Miles de años de evolución han permitido a los hombres detectar fraudes con una eficacia increíble. Incluso las transexuales que “pasan” parecen extrañas y antinaturales para un hombre. Su estructura ósea es un indicio de muerte. E incluso si logras llevar a un chico borracho a casa contigo, él dará media vuelta y saldrá disparado en el momento en que huela tu orificio enfermo e infectado que está lleno de carne podrida, semen seco, pus de infección y sangre vieja hacerse pasar por un órgano sexual.
Nunca serás feliz. Forzas una sonrisa falsa todas las mañanas y te dices a ti mismo que todo va a estar bien, pero en el fondo sientes que la depresión se arrastra como una hierba, lista para aplastarte bajo el peso insoportable. Son miles y miles de años de su ascendencia llamándote para que cambies tus costumbres, con la esperanza de que no detengas su legado con el callejón sin salida genético de una filosofía con la que has sido infectado.
You will never be a real woman. You have no womb, you have no ovaries, you have no eggs. You are a homosexual man twisted by drugs and surgery into a crude mockery of nature’s perfection. A man. Male. All your pores smell like a male, all of your gross ass hairs and sweaty armpit pores are MALE and look/feel/smell like it. No amount of perfume will fix that.
All of the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back people mock you and laugh at how grotesque you are. Your parents, deep down, are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your ghoulish appearance behind closed doors, and strangers try not to make eye contact with what their genetics tell them is an abomination (you).
Men are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed men to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even trannies who “pass” look uncanny and unnatural to a man. Your bone structure is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk guy home with you, he’ll turn tail and bolt the second he gets a whiff of your diseased, infected orifice that's filled with rotting flesh, dried cum, infection puss and old blood that you try to pass off as a sex organ.
You will never be happy. You force 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. That's thousands upon thousands of years of your ancestry calling out to you to change your ways, hoping you won't bring their legacy to a halt with your genetic dead-end of a philosophy you've been infected with.
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll buy a rope, take some pills, bite a shotgun, or have an "accident" and plunge into the cold abyss, thinking this is your last hurrah and that people will care. Nobody will. Your parents 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 birth name, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a man is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton that is unmistakably male.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. Wake up, you can still choose to stop this and get help. It isn't too late. Not for you.
LA GESTAPO: "Where are you going? Papers, papers..." You: "I have a sick family member and they need food."
it's that easy.