A few days ago I started reading ‘Serotonine’ by Houellebecq.

There are no words in the english language to express how bitter and devastating it is to read the perspective of a man without purpose, which has given up on life but is living. Disenchantment of masculinity
To be this cynical. To have your flame extinguished. To accept darkness without the promise of bringing light. To eschew responsibility and allow disorder. To be devoid of all passion. To allow a world without magic.

Unacceptable
I’m reading it simultaneously with a chick, her main issues have been ‘im so angry over the writer making the sugarbaby fuck a dog in detail and keep referring back to it’ & ‘why did he have to say that girlfriend from 2 decades before got fat’ & ‘why is he sexist’
May kektinue thread at some later point
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