Critical Doctrine of Iskra

Written by Wasps

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The iskraist mind is sick, aimless, and, unlike those around it, aware of both conditions. He is governed by three core factors; each of which continues a dampening on his abilities:

The hypothetical hinge hook up, which I would like to make clear, has not occurred yet, save rare cases, looms large over the iskraist in inspiring fashion. This woman, who does not exist and, yet still has already passed over the iskraist, dictates his sense of self worth at the atomic level. No love may bloom without her. All cum spent is wasted and worthless outside her ass. You may see the iskraist eye up designer clothes or more expensive hair cuts in vain for never will they meet the woman of their dreams nor be worthy of her affections. Its back to the stone cold, VPN protected, state ID requiring torrents of Angela White going fuck wild on Hitomi Tannaka’s massive tits. 

The urge to argue is natural as the pitbull. Similarly, it is most sated when killing small dogs. The urge to argue is the will to power; unending urge to say “Kill yourself, retard” and then get a handjob. Without the physique and CTE for MMA, the iskraist’s inexplicable calling for violence is resigned to seeking for a new exter, a greater prisman, to dunk on ceaselessly as the villain in their story. The issue becomes that the iskraist wants greater dunks and so studies more; wholly unaware that their prospective enemy has never read a book and thus has no interest in debating theoretical imaginary irregular geometric quantum irrational string patterning  sequences. The villain never comes, the story never ends, and the iskraist’s urge to fight moves elsewhere. 

Finally, we all find ourselves entrapped by the need for a bigger name on our diplomas. We unlucky few confined to state colleges can only pray the meager life we eek out will be enough to leave fuckistan or shitropolis for somewhere with badder women to disappoint. Even those at the big name schools simply didn’t get the biggest name, and so, are severed from divine prophecies and condemned to mockery by the hypothetical hinge hook up. Her yet-to-be-seen gaze magically knowing Harvard rejected us for a Ukrainian. This yearning, and all three in truth, share the same root desire: to return to a simpler life. The teenage life of a reddit discord mod who knew everyone else was a blind, batshit retard that couldn’t appreciate their genius. This desire, which cannot be admitted for fear of ridicule from people seeking the same, is the true diagnosis of all iskraist worries. 

Diagnosis demands perception, and no more potent medicine exists than stim addiction. 

Rail that shit. 

Hard. 

Don’t stop shooting until the wood grain moves even when you’re sober. Think about walking your daughter down the aisle with visible snow so thick the crowd is made of pixel censored on-lookers reminding you of japanese paizuri POV porn. Get friends who will go to rehab after seeing how bad it’s gotten for you. Be their inspiration while shouting slurs at Denny’s. Imagine the future as nose bleeds and fat bank accounts until your heart gives out at 43 when your chud son finally hits the tee ball. The void left by aging cannot be filled but can be numbed. Numb it until you forget most of your memories and have nothing to compare your life to except that one friend who stopped talking to you after high school. Find love and rip lines off her pussy lips until your dick turns blue. Argue so incoherently the police are called. Get into that big school and forget every lecture after 18 hours of “studying.” Your dreams are in reach and never satisfactory.