My name is Phil Samson, and I’m a 30-something year old virgin living in an apartment over the garage at my parent’s house. My manly bits are so small that I’m too embarrassed to even talk about it, and I’ve never had a girlfriend long enough to get a kiss. Since puberty I’ve been rejected by every single woman I’ve come into contact with, so I’m generally in a foul mood.
I’m also an unemployed misogynistic loser clinging to a dead patriarchy, and because of this I’ll undoubtedly die a bitter and lonely old man. I fear not even the nurses in my gub’ment subsidized convalescent home will want to comfort me as I take my final breath before slipping away from this toxic life of alienation I’ve created.
Because of my repulsive personality, I sit alone night after night in my own filth writing this blog and spewing misogynistic venom via the intergooglewebs while eating Chef Boyardee mini ravioli right out of the can. A pharmacy tech named Melissa is the only female I have any sort of rapport with, and that’s just on the days I take the bus to the pharmacy to get my psoriasis medication.