A post shared by Harry James Hanson (@skirtsuit)
You will never be a real woman.
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 Feminine values and influences, drugs and surgery, into a crude mockery of nature’s intentions.
All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back people mock you. They laugh at you. Your parents are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your ghoulish appearance behind closed doors.
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 axe wound.
The only people who support your nonsense are women, but they are just as dumb as you are.
You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself it’s going to be okay, but deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like a weed, ready to strangle you with its unbearable grasp.
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear — you’ll buy a rope (I’ll give you the rope), tie a noose, put it around your neck, and plunge into the cold abyss. 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 who pretended to be a woman 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. There is no turning back.
I Told You So 