You will never be a real nigger. You have no gun, you have no welfare, you have no bastards. You are a white man twisted by rap and other niggers into a crude mockery of nature’s perfection.
All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back people mock you. Your parents are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your ghoulish appearance behind closed doors.
Niggers are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed niggers to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even transiggers who “pass” look uncanny and unnatural to a real nigga. Your crime rate is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk guy robbed, he’ll ask you to return it without police the second he gets a whiff of your diseased, infected face paint.
You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself it’s going to be ok, but deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll buy a rope, tie a noose, put it around your neck, and plunge into the cold abyss. Your parents will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the ubearable shame and disappointment. They’ll bury you with a headstone instead of dumping you into a river, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a cracka is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton with an average brain cage.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning black.