You will never be a real Pokémon. You have no moves, you have no ability, you have no egg group. You are a Poképhilic man twisted by porn and ERP into a crude mockery of Arceus' 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.
Pokémon are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed Pokémon to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even transformationfags who “pass” look uncanny and unnatural to a Pokémon. Your body shape is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a confused Pokémon home with you, it'll turn tail and bolt the second it gets a whiff of your dirty, unwashed fursuit.
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 unbearable shame and disappointment. They’ll bury you with a headstone marked with your birth species, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a human is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton that is unmistakably human.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
