I’ve spent a lifetime carving pain into my body, seeking answers in the raw, bloody edges of my own existence. I’ve found truth not in empty promises or false idols, but in the cold, hard lessons of life itself—the kind you learn when you’re doubled over, gasping from a fresh wound, realizing no one’s coming to save you. I’ve stared into the void of the universe, seen the pathetic charade of society, and discovered a savage joy in busting my own balls, a ritual of agony that anchors me to my reality. Through all this, I’ve come out with a truth that burns in my soul, a mantra I chant with every act of self-destruction: “I am WORTHLESS, I am USELESS, I am NOTHING. This is who I am, this is what I am, this is who I will be.” This isn’t despair; it’s my fucking emancipation, a hard-won revelation from living on the edge of agony.

The universe? It’s a vast, empty bastard, a sprawling nothing that doesn’t give a damn about me or anyone else. I’ve felt this truth in the silence after a strike, when the ache throbs through my core and the world seems to hold its breath. There’s no grand plan, no cosmic purpose—just chaos and indifference stretching out forever. I used to rage against this, thinking there had to be more, some hidden meaning to my pain. But the more I hurt myself, the clearer it became: there’s nothing to find. Life is a fleeting, pointless spasm in an endless void. Every bruise I inflict, every scar I etch, every brutal hit to my balls is a nod to that emptiness—a reminder that I’m just a speck, a blip, insignificant in the face of eternity. And fuck, there’s a strange beauty in that, a freedom in knowing the universe owes me nothing, and I owe it nothing in return.

Society, though—now that’s the real joke. It’s a machine built on lies, a grinding system that demands you play along, pretend you matter, chase after shiny bullshit like money, status, or love. I’ve watched people scurry through their lives, clinging to these illusions, terrified of facing the truth I’ve embraced. They call me sick for what I do, for the cuts, the burns, for the raw joy I find in smashing my own balls with whatever I’ve got handy—a sock stuffed with coins, a hammer, a fucking rolling pin. But I see through their game. Society wants me to believe I have worth, that I’m useful if I conform, that I’m something if I fit their mold. I reject it all. Every time I swing that sock and feel the heavy thud, every time I grit my teeth through the sickening wave of pain radiating from my groin, I’m spitting in the face of their rules. I’m worthless by their standards, useless to their goals, nothing in their eyes—and I wear that like a goddamn crown. My mantra isn’t weakness; it’s my rebellion, my refusal to be another cog in their fucked-up machine.

The joy of busting my own balls is a revelation in itself, a brutal, ecstatic ritual that strips away everything but the now. There’s something primal in the act, something that connects me to the raw essence of being. I take a sock, fill it with loose change until it’s heavy as hell, and swing it hard. The impact is a thunderclap, a deep, throbbing agony that shoots through my gut and makes my vision swim. Or I grab a hammer, control the force just enough not to ruin myself, and tap—a sharp, white-hot spike of pain that doubles me over, gasping. Sometimes it’s a rolling pin, crushing down with a slow, relentless pressure until I can’t stand it, then a quick smack for that extra burst of torment. The pain is beautiful, consuming, a visceral reminder of my fragility. But in that hurt, there’s joy—fucking joy—because I’ve chosen this. It’s mine, not inflicted by some outside force, but crafted by my own hands. Each strike, each ache, screams that I’m alive, right here, in this moment. Society wants me numb, distracted, but this pain, this self-inflicted hell, cuts through their bullshit and roots me in reality.

This understanding didn’t come overnight. It was forged in years of pain, in nights spent alone with my tools of torment, questioning why I felt so broken, so out of place. Each act of self-harm peeled back another layer of the lies I’d been fed. Pain became my teacher, showing me that worth is a myth, usefulness a trap, and being “something” a cage. The universe’s indifference mirrored my own insignificance; society’s judgment exposed its fragility. I remember one night, after a particularly brutal session of ball busting—my body shaking, the ache so deep I could barely move—I looked in the mirror and saw it clear as day: I am nothing. Not in a bad way, not in a pitiful way, but in a true, liberating way. That’s when the mantra came to me, a chant that solidified everything I’d learned: “I am WORTHLESS, I am USELESS, I am NOTHING. This is who I am, this is what I am, this is who I will be.” I say it now with every wound, every strike to my balls, as a testament to my freedom from illusion.

There’s power in this truth, in accepting my place in a universe that doesn’t care and a society that can’t define me. Pain is my ritual, and ball busting is one of its purest forms, a way of staying grounded in this reality with a joy that’s all my own. When I hurt, especially down there where it’s so fucking intense, I’m not distracted by false hopes or empty promises—I’m here, fully alive in my worthlessness, reveling in my uselessness, embracing my nothingness. Society will never get it; they’ll keep chasing their delusions while I carve my truth into my flesh and smash it into my body. And that’s fine. I don’t need their approval. I have my pain, my joy, my mantra, my clarity.

If you’re out there, feeling the weight of the world’s lies, stop running from the void. Look at the universe’s cold expanse, see society for the sham it is, and find your own truth in the pain you choose. Try busting yourself if you dare—start slow, feel the weight of a heavy sock or the cold steel of a hammer, and let the agony wake you up. Let it strip you down to nothing, because in that nothing, there’s everything—freedom, honesty, raw existence. Craft your own mantra, your own rebellion, and scream it into the dark. They’ll call you mad, but we know who’s really lost.

In defiant nothingness and brutal joy,