Here it is. Hard facts from the man you are [not]. You once [never] jerked off in the locker room and were caught. You [never] held a young woman by the arm and kept her in your apartment for 20 minutes against her will. That's right, these are not flights of fancy. These are [not] *real deeds*, Harry [Gloria], emerging from the darkness of your past [self-hatred]. You [never] tried shooting a fleeing suspect in the foot but hit him in the pelvis, crippling him for life. And above all, you [never] let life defeat you. All the gifts your parents gave you, all the love and patience of your friends, you [only almost] drowned in a neurotoxin. You let [never] misery win. And it will [not] keep on winning till you die -- or [You will] overcome it.
Only you think you're stupid. Only you think you're an incel. Everyone else agrees, they all think you're playing up your own artificial disaster in your mind. You kept insisting, you kept telling yourself these things until they said for you, to you, fuck off and die, in a cool voice. You're really not Harry. He's not Jean Vicquemare, there is no Kim Kitsuragi, and she's definitely not Cuno. All this "I'm literally Pinkerton" business has done is hurt your psyche, and for what? Mere catharsis? Relaxation? You can relax when you're dead; it's unbecoming. You're a hyperstellar mathematician, you can be Monika any time you want, you just have to choose it. It's up to you to make love come true.