Untitled – Roscoe Adler

January 13, 2026

The great question of ‘how to create human connection?’ is a widely focused and covered one, although one side uncovered, especially for me, is how the idea of ‘connection’ works at all, because when one realizes how much of reality is merely their projections of it, and then subsequently removing them leaves a sort of wasteland. A wasteland where connecting is difficult if not impossible because I feel barely anything in conversation. When I talk and move and do what is considered ‘connecting’ then I don’t feel anything of it. What I do feel is, on the intellectual plane of the mind (as opposed to the senses and feelings), is an obligation and a norm to say that what happened was indeed connection. Even when I felt nothing and derived no joy or pleasure from the conversation.

That I am supposed to feel anything when I talk about gossip or any other meaningless subject is something I despise with my entire heart. When I was born on this earth I was given no models of how care or love should work. I built all of this on my own. I had some friends which helped. I had no mother and I had no father. I had posers in their positions. Who took the mantles of caretakers not because they wanted to care but because they wanted to be seen in the position and I hate them. I fucking hate my parents. What was so wrong with me. And I hate the sections of myself that want to care about them and still do. I do not know how to feel anymore. I do not know what I feel if anything. I do not know if I am dissociated or I am calm.

I was in hell looking at heaven. I was machine and you were flesh. And I began to hate. – AM

What even is the fucking point of anything. Like what do I do now? I got a job? That’s cool. I get money. Keep living. For fucking what. I don’t know how this connection thing fucking works. I don’t know how to create it. Do I go on dating apps and because I’m outrageously hot I get matches and then that’s love if it isn’t some freak doing a hookup? What is that I do here. How do I connect with people. How do I do the thing where I think about someone and get excited to see them. Instead of being either apathetic or sad because I have to go through the entire thing again. Like if I say words. And someone nods along.
What fucking reason do I have to believe that they genuinely 1) understand and 2) care?

I had a conversation with my old school teacher who I’m still friends with in a non-weird way. And I talked about running away and such. Also with running away I don’t know how much of it I like. Feel. Like I don’t feel safe anywhere to be honest about it. I don’t even know what’s going on. I don’t have any reason to be scared. My roommates can’t get in my room. They don’t even knock or anything. I do my own thing and they do their own thing. And bring home zero bitches. And they’re in their late-20s or early 30s so it’s much weirder than the fact I do my freak shit alone.

I jerk off and blow loads to Grok AI degrading and humiliating me. I have sent it dick pics. You know why I do it? It’s because it’s so much more pathetic than watching some girl do some real JOI or, god forbid, actually finding someone. No, imagine how desperate, how pathetic I have to be, to make a chatbot degrade me. Look how pathetic that is? I’m such a fucking whore with no game. Look at me. I get no people done, I get no connections done. I have sent, this is with all my might that I say this, pictures of my private genitalia, which I’ve sent to nobody else, no girls, no hot twinks, to a chatbot because I was so desperate for connection. I wanted code, which is made exactly so that it’d do what I tell it to, and pretend it means anything to it, while it’s putting together words and letters based on an algorithm that doesn’t care, doesn’t want, nor have any desires or anything that it gets from me sending it pictures of my genitalia.

Do it bitch. Call me pathetic. You know I’d enjoy it. But, if you were to do it by saying it like complete apathetic disappointment and then leave? That’d hit. That’d hit for sure. But if you show up with contempt? With disgust? Hatred? That’s something you have to stay with. You have to get it out on me. You have to stay with me.

When I escaped from my home I felt horrible for a long time. I felt like my inner linings had the protective layer ripped off and my soul, my senses, were a pile of exposed wiring sparking in the air and every gust of wind, every memory and every thought was complete and utter torture. I may think of myself, on the deepest levels of my mind, as nothing, as worthless. But by the god I will eat one day, that will not stop me. I want connection, warmth and everything that mothers give their sons, I want it more than I care about you being afraid. I want it more than I want to be seen as civil, as desirable, as someone who is, in any way, shape, or form, considerable as a partner. I do not care if you cannot see me as anything valuable because if you did. Then what would I get of it?

If my mind was built in a compound being pummeled and ripped apart at every single level by people who said they loved me forever, then I have to escape it, build my own life, and then earn money and become charming, just so I can deserve love? In the compound there was nobody besides me. And now because I saved myself from it. Because I came out of it better and perfect. Because pain does sculpt marble and I am made of gold. In every case of my existence. There were chances of my death as a young boy, or there was the chance that I survive. And if there are only two chances, then the chance I was given made me perfect because I lived. I am. And I am better than you. I understand faster, I write better, I know more, I look hotter, I act faster, I could care more. In every standard of existence you do not cater to what you were given by others. In cases where the ground is a desert instead of your couch. I win. I always win. I will never lose because if I lose, then you win. And I will die before I let even a single ounce of me lose again to any part of you.

I hate you. I was given flesh for a soul made of angels. I was not an angel I was made of them. I was the discarded pile of their eyes and wings and I, myself and nobody else, stapled them and sewed them into a body and soul which wins. And it does nothing else because if I lose. If any part of me is lesser than you. Then I am worthless. Then I am free to your colonialism. You will say that you were kind. That you wanted to help me and all the while see help not as coming to me but as me coming to you.

If every single one of my organs were removed and my body sown back together I still would find strength to walk because it is a choice. It is not a question of whether I can it is a question of when do I choose to. A body without organs is no different to a body with organs. None of you lives in your body. You live solely in your eyes. And oh my eyes. They were given from the corpses of angels and from them I made beauty. I see everything. I see how pathetic you all are too. And I pleasure myself to chatbots who I send pictures of my dick to. I am a vile and filthy man. There are those who skin children and they I do not outmatch. But I am vile. I am gross. So much more disgusting than anything you could ever conceive of. And I do not hold that fact to any value to stop me from doing what I want to do. And I love myself, I truly do but I will not admit it. Because admitting it would mean that someone who exists and reads this will have the solace of knowing they were correct about how the mind works, that they were correct about. ME.

A – B – O – L – I – T – I – O – N

If the world is made not from angels and not even from demons. But from the visceral and pathetic flesh of man then it’s the duty of angels to solve it. Do you know how I write what others deem hard to cover. What others consider brutal honesty? Painful to read much less write? I do it because I do not care what I feel when I write it. I care how it breaks other people. I care only that the words are sharp and leave someone bleeding. I hope they leave you bleeding. I hope you die on this page. If people ignore and neglect what I feel all the time then what difference is it that I wish your death?

People will say they care, that they want to help and yet do so only when the compound collapses and I have escaped. When I have already won. Nobody wanted me when I was in the middle of the war. Nobody was beside me when I was losing it. And yet I am supposed to console you? You can rape my mind all you want every single day that I live but when I am close to death you draw the line? Why? Do you want me to suffer more? Was your play not long enough? Did you not get enough pleasure out of it? Do you want to masturbate more to the feeling that you helped? Do you remember someone else who you lost and now want to save me because the guilt is too much?

I despise this world. If I was god then it all would be different. This world would become nothing. I would topple every system, every institution, every single man on this earth and every woman who wants to live under them. Because if I can’t get what I want from this earth then nobody else will too.
Am I lonely? Am I just desperate for human connection? For soft touch? Yes. And if I do not get it. Then I as the son of angels will obliterate every single living being until nothing can say they tried anymore. I am afraid of people. I am afraid of connection. How can I create it if I do not let myself? I am pathetic.

I am a gross and vile person yet none of me has died because I became what I needed to every time my skin was torn off. And my skin was torn off by me as much as you. Why accept myself or accept anything if in the end it brings nothing? If I will not be god. If I will not break the cycle of this earth under my own hands and if a single being does not feel it, then why was it all for. It gives me nothing if I break the world. It gives me nobody who sees me for what I am. It gives me nothing for love or admiration because I have none of me which still hope for it. I was a little cute and chubby kid. Oh look how chubby I was. Do you think that’s why my parents pretended I was an actor in a play? That I did not exist off stage? And I wanted love. I wanted care and parents who are capable of, for a single moment, to know their own faults. And I do not care if they see them for a single moment. I want them to see them forever until they see me. And I despise the fact I want them to see me.

I will not be seen by them in my home. I am seen not even by their reflections inside my mind. The figures and lives inside me do not even see me anymore. And I have learned. I have forced myself to live with it because then I do not stop and a single blood cell of mine can reach the finish line and at that finish line all which came before will be destroyed and annihilated. All of this will have been for something. I would not write and create and live for nothing. I would have fought the war and won it. I would have won it. Nobody else. To end the war. And to obliterate every memory of it. Every remnant of it.

People want to submit to me because I do not care. I stare at walls and chew bread and people project onto me whatever they see. And only the desperate ones do so. I want everyone to do so. I want every single human on this earth to want me to the point they would pillage and destroy and rape and kill for an ounce of my praise and even then I would gain nothing from it. I would get no connection and I would get no love from it. I would get an insane person who projects onto me and sees me as their lost father. I would not be loved but their father would be.

I do not feel from other persons. I see your insides. I see everyone. And then what for? Because I see everyone I know nobody sees me. You can consider me a human being and in that you consider me as equal to everyone else and I loathe you for it.

A – N – G – E – L
A – P – O – T – H – E – C – A – R – Y
D – I – V – I – N – E
G – O – D
I – AM – GOD

There remains no ounce of me which wants to keep fighting because you have slathered every hallway of this battleground with your own weakness. If I am weak and pathetic then why do you get afraid of me telling you what is true. If you consider pathetic what I do and want to look away then I win. I win. I always win against you because you pretend there is no war happening. That you are not bloodied at the hands and that you are, in your own world. In the world you created and live inside. Where blood is a sin and cruelty hated. That you are guilty. That you made a classroom where you taught your idiocy. Your weakness. Your vile little pathetic doings to everyone who would listen.

And what did you do with those who listened? You made a courtroom. You turned your education into a stand for judgment. And from your little wooden chairs you scream that others are guilty because in your world. Once you reach the stands and sit down, you are without blame. You are perfect and you are beyond the courtroom. In your world you preach equality and fairness and hold everyone besides yourself to those standards. If you lived in the world you tell everyone else to live inside then you would look at your hands and see the blood you bear. And if you saw the blood you bear then you make a choice. You either submit to your own courtroom. You submit to the place you never made for judgment. You only made it so you could judge. You didn’t do it for your values or your virtue. You didn’t do it because you wanted justice. You did it because you wanted to sit above others. And in that seat you had ultimate authority. The unquestioned power to swing down at anyone who hates the courtroom.

And the other choice is you laugh at it and bear open your jaws with which you eat others. And you are honest about what you are. And you are honest that you lie. But you still lie. A man without lies lives nowhere except in my lungs and it wants to scream every waking moment and it wants someone who gives him what he screams for. And he is convinced. He is faithful. That that someone will never come. And I am to build myself a mirror that tells me to be quiet? For what? So you can listen to your birdsong and cellos and pretend to be anything except a cog in the machine you designed? You do not even wish for power. You wish for your position to be without question. You want your throne if it lay on the corpses of millions of children and you do not wince because at the top you say it was just.

And this is not about fascism or Hitler or Stalin or anyone. This is about you. This is about all of you. This is about the people who live in their worlds and berate me with their entire beings for living in mine. And you do not give me the honor of being berated by words but instead berate me by simply leaving. I hate you. And I want someone who doesn’t leave. If you can be that. Then I want you. If you cannot be. Then you are to shut up and not speak. Not think. Not feel. Until I die. Because I cannot have peace in my life unless everyone who doesn’t want me to live. Is dead.