I'm a Total Loser Because...



November 10, 2017
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  1. bigstupidpooper bigstupidpooper said: It looks like you resent NOT being a street thug. Seems kinda backwards.


November 2, 2017

wanted to post these periodically at the 1st of each month, but iam so much of a loser i could not even do that.. anyways, despite more attempts to lose weight, even after i went half anorexic after the girl i liked didnt care about me and had sex with her uber driver..i lost about 20lbs, but as a loser IT ALL CAME BACK.. and i could not even pull that off despite having started off very good, i dropped the ball...constant lose/gain has now lead to the worst ultimate thing..STRETCHMARKS, yes i know have really NASTY ones, despite not getting them the first 3 times i lost/gained,..my abdomen is now TOTALLY destroyed.  That if i even stood half a chance at a woman, she would be totally grossed out, so, i have not been laid for a real long time..lost a job and now i am scraping by, it is getting worse,  no girls/no job/no money/  and now i am not even able to lose weight like i had planned.. and now i have permananetly destroyed by stomach by having these ugly scars...life is bad, 

more loser chronicles next  month, 

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October 22, 2017

I found a couple online definitions for “helicopter parent” and decided that’s the perfect term for what my mother did to me. She hovered and I could never escape her view. I was constantly interrogated by her. The easiest way to avoid it was to lock myself in my room.

One time when I was 14 I went rollerblading in the neighborhood. I was out for maybe a half hour when my neurotic mother sent my dad out on a drive looking for me. I was so pissed. I used this “exercise” to get out of the crazy household for maybe 90 minutes tops sometimes and she wanted to reel me back in. You’re not allowed to experience the sensation of freedom! Get back in your room where I know you’re safe! I didn’t blame my dad for being the search party because I knew how forceful my mother’s paranoia was. She had all of us, including my dad, under her grip.

This submission is supposed to be about my dad who was not a “helicopter parent.” He believed in letting me make mistakes; however, their conflicting methods didn’t allow for me to make mistakes because mom wouldn’t let that happen. I resent her a lot for the relentless psychological control she imposed on my existence. In short, she was neurotic and wouldn’t admit it. Her present method of deflecting that criticism is to blame it on my dad—that he caused her to overprotect her kids.

Out of 3 kids, I was my dad’s favorite. He never said it with words but it was plain to see. As youngsters, my mother tried to pit us against him and I’m the only one who “saw through it.” I credit the not buying into that hate as the reason my dad and I got along better than he got along with my brother and sister. My mother tried to use us as tools to assert control over him. I was generally a sweet kid and just didn’t fall into that trap. He appreciated that and helped me dealing with her neuroticism sometimes. I still get mad when I think about how open her manipulations were.

Sidenote: mom still lives under the fearful cloud of somebody is out to get her. At 67 years old, she thinks she’s subject to getting raped or attacked unprovoked at any time.

Another sidenote: they never divorced. He moved out twice in my recollection, the second time permanently. I applauded the decision the second time and told them both they were better off separate.

I knew my dad had demons. He didn’t hide that he was an alcoholic. He DID hide that he was a whoremonger and a frequent illicit drug user. After he moved out the second time, he lived in a tiny camper and moved from trailer park to trailer park, never staying at one more than a few months. We suspected he was telling a psychiatrist stories to get whatever meds he wanted. I also knew he had played around with synthetic marijuana but assumed he had the personal fortitude to not do anything more severe. He also called me sometimes asking for unscheduled installments on a loan he gave me a couple years earlier. Since it was his money, I did my best to make good on his requests.

I saw my dad at Christmas 2014; he picked me up from the airport. Every year he went through a ritual of being way too excited to see me and being indifferent or avoiding the other members of my family. Like he still had a strong desire to impress me the way he did when I was a kid. Even through our tensions, we still had a natural flow of conversation that I don’t believe he had with anybody else in the whole world. That year when I was in town, he had an episode where he actually forgot the trailer park he moved his camper to. Although they were separated, my dad came to the house for Christmas because technically it was his house and because that’s where I stayed. Mom was too incompetent to figure out how to locate the camper. After some pointed questions, I, the out-of-towner, made a few phone calls, talked with a volunteer firefighter in the town he thought he may have parked it in and explained that my dad, up in years, was getting forgetful and needed assistance locating his camper. My parents were to go to the firehouse and meet with the lieutenant who would drive them to some of the trailer parks in his town. Before they left the house, I told my dad, “take a shower and brush your teeth!” The lieutenant was able to help him locate his trailer. My dad was grateful to me that I had the capacity to think the situation through and come up with a solution. I felt good about being a problem solver, but really, he was just manufacturing problems. I shouldn’t have needed to solve anything. The suspected drug by now was adulterated/street cut K2 or “incense” as he liked to call it.

In early 2015, he got into a car accident by running into a telephone pole. An officer found him unresponsive at the wheel and foaming/spittling at the mouth. He was taken to a hospital and transferred to a psychiatric ward for a week when my sister signed for him. If he was not shown to have family to be released to, I assume he would’ve been locked up. As it stood, he received not even a ticket. When I found out he was SMOKING CRACK, I decided that while I couldn’t rightfully cancel the loan repayments, I needed the money more than he did so retroactively assigned an interest rate of 0%. He also expressed that he wasn’t going to pay my sister back for her out-of-pocket expenses related to his hospital trip, so I paid her and counted those payments against the loan. He was ticked at her that she “put him in a mental hospital” and ticked at me that I paid her for it with his money. I sternly told him that she single-handedly kept him out of jail or the morgue and he didn’t have the right to bring her away from her job and kids to deal with him because he wanted to get high. It’s hard to reason with somebody who is on drugs, but he actually saw what I was saying and called her to apologize to her.

My brother stayed out of all this. Everyone was fine with this. We knew he’s a sensitive guy and a little quirky/nutty, and he was not obligated under any means to be involved. No one held it against him. This was also before we knew my brother was batshit insane.

Mom is the default hub of communication in the family which has its drawbacks. You never know if you’re getting an accurate message. Rather, you can be pretty certain the message has been through her filter and things added, subtracted, or otherwise convoluted. There’s no way to backtrack to the pure message because the message is whatever she wants it to be. This habit of hers has caused problems among all our family members. There are countless portrayals of this kind of mother on TV: my two favorites are the mothers on Everybody Loves Raymond and Arrested Development. They hit the nail on the head except they are used for comedic effect whereas mine just causes real life interpersonal problems. I guess this paragraph was just an interjection.

Since my pick up and drop off must be coordinated, I expressed to my mom that for Christmas 2015, I’d rather not be in the passenger seat of a vehicle operated by a crackhead, and for that matter, I didn’t actually care to see my dad that year. I was so let down when I heard he was smoking crack. I really thought he was morally higher than that. I talked with him a couple times on the phone after the crack revelation and tried the understanding approach. I asked him nonaccusatory questions. He gave me what I thought were valid thoughtful answers. How long have you smoked crack? Ten or so years, maybe longer. Do you want to quit? More than anything else. Do you have any right now? I always have some in a hidden spot so I know I have it. When was the last time you smoked it? Recently. In his last few years, he managed, through his pure selfishness, to dash the little bit of self-worth I had, because to an extent I gauge my self-worth based on the people who gave me life. Doesn’t everyone do that?

He came to the house for Christmas 2015. He was never a very good gift giver but that year he actually brought thoughtful and pretty good stuff for everyone. He was also rattling and talking way too much and acting like the crackheads you see on Youtube. His thoughts were disconnected and he jumped from topic to topic. He demanded to be the center of everyone’s attention by constantly telling stories he thought were important to share. I voice recorded a couple minutes of his rambling and can’t bear to listen to it because it just hurts to know his mind was so lost. It was cringeworthy to be in the room with him, I can’t willfully repeat the experience.

In early March 2016, I got the call from my mom. Honestly, I had expected to get it long before then. For as much as he abused himself, he made it to the age of 64, most people would call that a full life. How did he die? He was found on the couch in his tiny camper by his homeless roommate no one knew he had hunched over with his head between his feet, a crack pipe in his fingers. His piece of shit roommate didn’t attempt to contact anyone. He took his cell phone and used it for a whole week before answering an incoming call from someone who expected my dad to answer. That person called my mom to tell her the news.

I know exactly what my dad looked like in his life. His face was rosy, his teeth brown and gnarly, he had started going bald in his forties and only had some wispy feathers left in his sixties. His eyes were blue and watery like an Irish drunkard, his jaw square and nose round. Pictures of him in his youth showed a handsome boy and young man. Because of the week between death and collection and the further two weeks before his funeral, his body and face were not suitable for an open casket. The funeral director asked immediate family if they would like to see him before the service. I said yes, so my mom and sister stood by me, apparently for support, although I would’ve rather done it alone, and from a few feet away we looked at his gray skin, the stitches on his scalp (I’m not sure what they were from because to my knowledge an autopsy wasn’t ordered), his white prickly beard, the scabs all over his face, neck, and hands. I thought it was necessary to look at him because up to then NO FAMILY MEMBER had performed a visual confirmation. While I hadn’t doubted it was him, wouldn’t it be a hoax if we thought we buried my dad and it turned out to be some other bum? It was him, no question.

I miss my dad but I’m also still mad at him. I should say I miss the guy I knew him to be when I was a kid. For the rest of my life, whenever I think about “my dad,” I’ll think of a crackhead. When my sister’s kids think of their granddad, they’ll think of a scary looking stinky bum who told purposeless stories and disheveled jokes. Maybe the point of my story is that I wish my parents were better people because I want to be a better person too. How could anyone expect me to elevate myself to a higher standard when what I came from so clearly set a path for me to continue in the ill-esteemed ranks of the lower class?

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October 2, 2017

After 10 months, I still look the same

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Loser of the Week
October 1, 2017

welp nothing has changed..i tried to go to a course for a school program in manhattan and sure enough this lovely petite asian girl was our guide for the tour day..of course i got nervous and looked like a weirdo, have notseen her since :( now im not sure if i'll ever even be able to get a good job, i am too crazy/or paranoid to attend classes and not freak out.  ifreak out all the time, n then i start to think ppl are seeing something in me that i know is either not there or im trying to hide.i always feel very paranoid and feel isuffer from agoraphobia, if you dont know what that means search for it, to get a better definiton of it..everyday iam like this, it effects my jobs and i continue to decline/get fired/poor work performance,  it is really fxxing my life up,  i have not slept with a woman nor know how it feels to wake up next to one,  to see her laying in bed with you, hugging her through the night then waking in the morning to her sleeping maybe have some mornin sxx or somthing,..but NO not me, not EVER, iam stuck in my disgusting momndad house with my mentally ill sister,  who negatively impacts everything im going through, making life 1000% worse,  there is no way out of this hell,  anywho, more loserly entries to come,  if you like misery and woe and to read about some guys cursed demonic life, stay tuned..,

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  1. bigstupidpooper bigstupidpooper thinks you're a loser


September 2, 2017

Again, I face a decision I don’t want to make. My stupid brother and stupid mother are making this difficult for me, and I can’t act neutrally. Whichever decision I make will “mean” something. I am talking about visiting for Christmas or not going. Equally, I will regret either decision and that I should’ve made the other. No matter what happens, I will be full of regret.

My stupid mother’s favorite tool is guilt-tripping. My stupid brother’s favorite tool is blame. My stupid mother is catching on and also using blame as a tool. I am sure to catch both guilt and blame whether I go or not, and whether I decide to explain myself or not will also yield equally unpleasant, if different, results.

My favorite tool is predicting outcomes and telling people when I told them so.

Another regret I’ll have is if I decide not to go and my stupid mother actually kicks off before I see her again (I’ve limited family visits to Christmas and special occasions for 13 years). I moved far away because my stupid family drives me absolutely nuts but I’ll still feel bad. Her rapidity of talking about dying has only grown; while I dismiss it as her using her favorite tool, I know that one day or night, it’s going to happen. She has implanted that fear in me which means it’s a contrived fear. There should be no difference between talking on the phone and seeing her in person but she draws a distinction which means I am sure to feel guilty.

The reason this Christmas trip is contentious is my brother is fucked up and actually lost his mind—psychiatric institution style—and told me to bug off forever. He then told my mother that he said no such thing. My stupid brother and I have not communicated in over a year because I respected his request and stopped trying. Before he told me he’s not my brother, I was actively trying to maintain a relationship with that asshole, but now: fuck ‘em. If he’s just going to be a god-damn bastard face, then I don’t want to keep trying. In the unlikely event he tries to contact me, I will probably ignore him. Like I said: fuck ‘em. My stupid mother thinks I am responsible and that I need to call him and bridge the gap or some bullshit. She does not believe that’s exactly what I was doing when he had his months-long temper tantrum in 2016 (and as far as I know, still ongoing). She also does not believe that her sweet little boy would be such an ass-hat to me even though he has been to her and she knows he totally lost his mind, claimed rape while under care at a mental hospital, retaliated hard when I asked my sister to make calls for police intervention because my stupid mother thought it was better for him to stay in a rapey hospital while zonked out under who-knows-what meds, recanted his claim of being raped, and labeled me as manipulative and controlling for demanding the police get involved when I thought (because he said) he was raped. She’s willfully denying all these things and wants us to “just get along.”

Moreover, my stupid mother is trying to be an intermediary when neither my stupid brother nor I seek reconciliation. While I would be happy to forget that asshole, every time she brings him up, I just resent him more. I told her that if she is having any impact at all, she is only serving to make things worse, because while I might have accepted a call from him before, I am now determined to ignore him and avoid him.

He likely won’t show up for Christmas because he’s played that game for years, dangling it and making a family visit conditional upon family members acting the way he wants them to. Because I saw how openly manipulative that was, I decided that I would just show up once a year without conditions, act happy, and be honest, if pressed, about why I limit my family visits—but not try to negotiate about it. But now I need to consider whether I can even continue an annual visit because my stupid brother and mother have drawn me into their retarded game.

I am loser because that's what I come from. It doesn't matter what I do—I will not be able to escape it. More on my dead dad next time.

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August 23, 2017

myown sister callsme loser under her breath... particularly after i just watched a nice porn with some lucky nailing some sluts..an i cant even get a girl to talk to let alone attempt to get laid...i lost almost every job i ever had. Even had a government job and i managed to loser out and f*** that up by being forced to quit...i talk to no one and have 0 acqiuantances/frnds or any form of social contact..i had a car and bad luck made me crash it and total it..so now i really cant get laid or do anything at all. i was nice lookn a few years ago but since am now bald, fat because depression and isolation made food a comfort and then it got out of control which led to becoming semi-obese. everyday is just a slow agonizing death, all  i am doing by staying alive is prolonging the torture and sadness. my body and organs functioning n work fine but my mind and consciusness died because i shut it all down due to the agonizing pain and embarassement. my body is the only thing stil alive. ..I'd like to add that now horrific ugly stretch marks running along my waist and stomach (throws up) depressed eating totally destroyed my body!! made everting 100% worse   : (




August 8, 2017

I don't feel like going through everything as that depth of reflection makes me feel pretty sick, so I'll just brush the surface.

I'm over 30 and still living at home. Haven't dated in 7 years, or had any sexual contact in that time. The closest I get is when there's a sharp turn on the crowded bus I take to my dead end job. I do manual labour, at least that's what I tell anyone who asks, but what I really do is put things in boxes.

I have 0 friends. literally no one. I don't talk to my parents that much since everytime I do, I can see the disappointment on their faces.

I'm trying to get it together by going to school but from what I hear from the people that took the program, I'll end up at a help desk, helping people turn on their computers. I guess that's a step up or more like lateral movement.

I never thought I would be successful but I didn't think I would be a failure. I'm going to stop now, I feel sick.




August 5, 2017

I had a doc appt yesterday and during it was thinking about my hypocrisy in criticizing my brother for his meds usage and I do the same. For years, I have been unwilling to curb my Paroxetine usage because I was afraid of going back to the way I was when I was a teen. I DO still strongly believe Paroxetine helped me through some times but at the expense of learning how to deal with those times without medicine. That could be a reason people think I’m weird. I also tend to deny if something is affecting me when it may be clear to others I am affected. Getting rid of this secret medicine may help to remove the cloud of secrecy from my shoulders.

Wednesday was the last time I took a 40 mg Paroxetine pill. I missed Thursday and yesterday due to rushing out the door, which happens sometimes. Today is Saturday, the third day, and I’m intentionally skipping it. I took the missed days out of my pill reminder, and tomorrow, Sunday, my normal day to fill up the pill reminder, I will only fill it with multivitamins.

There are a few things I’ll need to look out for. Currently, I feel my life is meaningless about 3-4 days per week. Let’s call it 50%. I’ll need to see if that changes.

Before I was medicated, I had chronic upset stomach. It affected me mentally and physically. I had morning urgent bathroom trips and periodically throughout every day. I felt shameful about it, and my anus was always burning because of needing to wipe it so much.

Another effect of upset stomach was a chronic feeling of impending doom and gloom.

Another effect of upset stomach was very short attention span. It was very hard to pay attention to what anyone was telling me when I was in so much pain.

Since those days, I have learned a lot about dependencies and addictions. When I was a teenager, my understanding of addictions was that only bad people had them. I have since learned that the human capacity for addiction is used as a tool in social engineering on a conspiratorially large scale. Every person is susceptible to the phenomenon and must be wary of it.

Ultimately, I am responsible for what I put in my body. I am very aware that I have *chosen* to continue with my regimen of a mind-altering substance, believing the benefits to be greater than the drawbacks. At the age of 34 years and 4 months, I have spent approximately 15 years under the influence of doctor-prescribed substances because of the belief that I function on a higher level and am ultimately a better person under the influence of these medicines. Further, Paroxetine and its cousins are not intensely regulated distribution-wise, expensive, or hard to get a hold of.

But I still have this nagging feeling that I’m not normal because of my usage of this chemical concoction. I should be able to overcome my hardships by leveraging knowledge to change my circumstances. My answer to changing my circumstances has been to consume the drug. Yes, it physically changes my insides. My mind and gut function differently because of it. But what if I could do something less reliant on an industry which seeks to have me buy its pills for the rest of my days? I’m not delusional in thinking I can make it without buying products. I know I can’t. Should I draw a distinction between food and chemicals? I can’t strongly say one way or another. I have felt benefits and their opposite, simultaneously. Unfortunately, I can’t choose to both use and not use the drug at the same time.

In the last 15 years, my dosage has increased and decreased, changed brands, changed combinations, changed release mechanisms (continuous or extended release vs. non continuous or extended release), changed surrounding factors such as alcohol consumption, relationship status, and work environment, and changed consistency from never missing a day, to missing several days in a row, to sporadically missing a day here or there. If, at the end of my days, I am to be judged based on my array of life experiences during that time, I believe I will get a thumbs-up for variety but a thumbs-down for failing to achieve that variety without an industrially produced and sold to me for profit chemical altering my psyche at all times (and my insistence that I need it). I’m still not 100% convinced that I don’t need it, but at the here and now, I am ready to admit that I could’ve been wrong. Perhaps I did not tread the most wholesome or enlightened path. I am ready to attempt to live in a way that is less conducive to being strung along by those who seek to profit by telling me it’s good for me.

Begin 1 month.

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  1. Loser4life Loser4life said: hey , u probly not (cannot) be worse than me..so it sounds like you just have a brain/mind impairment. my sister and i have the same thing..its just a chemical thing in your head and sometimes it manifests worse in certain people, i kno how it is


Loser of the Week
June 3, 2017

I'm a big loser. I'm 61 years old. My dick is so small. It's basically just a dickhead that sticks out of my groin. I'm about 1 inch to 1 1/2 inches soft. I have to shave off my pubes to be able to see my dick. When I'm hard, I'm about 4 1/2 inches, max. That's not all. I'm a two pump chump. But I'll talk about that later. Daaave hit193@yahoo.com

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  1. darwinthwarted darwinthwarted said: Yep. It is a curse. And at our age, it's made worse by the fact that the women we're most likely to date and be intimate with have had children. Which, of course, means they generally need larger to enjoy sex.
  2. RejectBastard RejectBastard thinks you're a loser
  3. Pippabastard Pippabastard thinks you're a loser