The mirror in my bathroom’s cracked, and I’m chewing my tongue, pushing it against my palate -- mewing, they call it. Day one. I order a training program off some app, start lifting weights in the basement of the Yates Center. The 45-pound bar feels like a car on my chest, but I keep going. I buy protein powder from the GNC near Farragut Square, mix it with water that tastes like rust. A week later, I’m on a steroid subreddit, DMing a guy named TrenGod1488 for a hookup. He sends me a vial of testosterone cypionate mixed with trenbalone and says pin it twice a week. I stick the needle in my thigh, hands shaking, and feel nothing at first. Then my traps swell, my jaw gets sharper, my acne flares up like a map of hell.

I find the Pickup Artist boards next -- PUA Central, some Discord server with grainy voice chats. Negs, kino, daygame, all these terms I memorize like statutes. I’m popping Adderall, 20mg, to stay awake, parsing their field reports. Fifty approaches a day, they say. Force the numbers, beat the anxiety. I’ve got no game, no eye contact, just a law student ID and a gap button-down that smells like stale coffee. I start on M Street, GWU girls in yoga pants, congressional interns with lanyards swinging. “Hey, you look like you’re late for something,” I say to the first one, voice flat, hands twitching. She blinks, walks away. Disaster. Ten more like that -- blank stares, nervous laughs, one tells me to fuck off near Dupont Circle. I go home, stim with my arms flapping, scream into my pillow.

Phenibut comes in the mail, some sketchy powder from a nootropics site. I mix it with Four Loko, chase it with Adderall -- 30 milligrams now. My heart’s racing, but the edge dulls, and I’m out again. Fifty girls a day, every day. Metro stations, coffee shops, the Hill. “You’re too cute to be this serious,” I say to a brunette outside Union Market. She smiles, then leaves. Progress. A blonde near Eastern Market gives me her number, but it’s fake -- 202 area code, dead line. I’m logging it all in a spreadsheet, like a case brief. Rejections: 47. Conversations: 3. Numbers: 0. My biceps are bigger, my jaw’s tighter, girls glance at me now instead of through me. I’m still a robot, but a better-looking one.

November hits, and I’m at 40 milligrams of Adderall, Phenibut every other day. I’m a machine -- approach, neg, escalate. Outside a bar on 14th Street, I spot her: mid-20s, sharp bob haircut, Warren 2020 pin on her bag. Congressional staffer vibes. “You look like you secretly hate your boss,” I say, forcing a smirk. She laughs, says, “Maybe I do.” We talk. Her name’s Claire, she’s from a WASPy suburb outside of Boston, works for Elizabeth Warren’s office. I’m buzzing, words spilling out, no stimming, no flop sweat. She’s into it. “Wanna get out of here?” she asks, and I nod, brain short-circuiting.

Her apartment’s on 14th near Logan Circle -- exposed brick, photos of her extensive solo-travels, a cat named Hunter staring at me from the couch. She’s kissing me, hands on my chest, and I’m trying to feel something, anything. But the Adderall’s got my blood locked up, and the Phenibut’s numbed me out. I’m soft, useless, staring at her ceiling while she fumbles with my belt. She stops, sits up, eyes wet. “Is it me?” she says, voice cracking. “Am I not...?” I freeze. Autism slams back in, a freight train of overload. I don’t know what to say, don’t know how to fix it. My arms start flapping, hard, like I’m shaking off water. “I...I gotta go,” I mutter, grab my jacket, bolt out the door. She’s crying behind me, and I’m stimming down the stairs, hands jerking, hating myself.

Exams are two weeks away. I’m out of Adderall -- burned through my script hitting on girls, no refills left. I try to study, but my brain’s fogged, a blank screen. Torts, Contracts, Civ Pro -- all gibberish without the pills. I’m depressed, replaying Claire’s tears, my limp failure. I barely cracked a book all semester, too busy chasing jawlines and numbers. Finals hit, and I’m scribbling nonsense, hands twitching, sweating through my shirt. Grades drop in January -- F, D, F. Academic probation, then dismissal. GULC kicks me out, no appeal.

I’m back in my parents’ basement now, staring at the same cracked mirror. No more mewing, no more test, no more approaches. I’m done with normie shit -- law, girls, all of it. The forums are still there, but I don’t log in. I just sit, stimming quietly, letting the silence eat me alive.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5688871&forum_id=2:#48713827)

Can you provide some general background on him so I can write a short story about him? (Non-outing info only.)

Think it would be too similar to this one to be worth it?

Will be fun to try to get into the mind of an Asian.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5688871&forum_id=2:#48714536)

Beyond that, him being Asian, and the domestic violence item mentioned above, I don't know anything else.

What city did he live in? What kind of Asian? Born in US or Asia?

Now that I remember the gay sex stuff, I'm really interested in writing a short story about him. I think it could even turn into a novel -- although I'd likely have to use an Asian pen name so the woke women working in publishing will give me a shot at publishing it. Perhaps I'll have my agent tell them I'm a successful Asian biglawyer and the pen name is necessary because otherwise it would hurt my career.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5688871&forum_id=2:#48717165)

CR little faggot had it coming IMO

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5688871&forum_id=2:#48742139)