You don the clown makeup, ready to see the new Joker film. Thoughts are racing in your head - "Does he really say it with a hard R?" "Is he going to initiate the uprising?" "Will femoids bow down to me?" you can barely contain yourself before you breathe and look in the mirror.

You head upstairs and go past your dad. He's sitting down watching the news again, like the boomer he is. He'll never understand the struggle. He asks you where you're going this late, you say out. He laughs and says I hope with a girl. You groan and utter out a "Sure dad" in response. His eyes are glued to the TV, so he never will get to appreciate the work you spent on the clown makeup. Before you leave, you get a last glance at your face in the window. Looking perfect.

The trip to the theater is the usual. You get on the bus, the bus driver is a fat black man and the usual vagrants crowd the seats. One of the girls you pass by looks really cute but you try not to gawk for too long as you go to the back. You think to yourself, man that girl she was a 10 out of 10. Too bad she's probably a roastie. But you gotta admit that she was extremely cute. Just a little chubby, a redhead, wearing cute glasses and she had a cool DOOM T-Shirt on. Damn.

But alas, she would never talk to someone like you, you realize. That's her fault, she's missing out on the best sex of her life. Even though you're a virgin you've perfected your technique from watching porn and practicing on your body pillow.

Here you are, looking forward unto the theater. Bus ride be damned you made it. You walk with pride and purpose as you enter the theater. You make your way in line and wait your turn to the counter. The presence of Chads and Staceys looming. They're not even wearing Clown makeup. Although you chuckle to yourself when you remind yourself all women look like clowns with any makeup on at all. All that false advertising they do is laughable after all. A real woman doesn't do that.

As the line gets shorter you prep what you're going to say to the ticket clerk. You tend to get nervous a lot and stumble over your words with strangers, so it's always best to run it through your head a few hundred times before committing. Here you are, at last, at the front of the line. In front of the ticket clerk. You've practiced your entire time in line, aside from the time you were thinking about the girl on the bus you saw again, because she's in your mind. "Uhm....."

Damnit, you forgot how you were going to say it. Everyone is looking at you, you look like a fool right now. A clown, if you will. The clerk looks at you with an empty expression, which could only mean he's judging you. You breathe... "One ticket to see Joker" you triumphantly get out, with no stutter or mumbling. There's a pause. It feels like the whole lobby has gone silent.

The clerk stares at you for what seems like an eternity. He says "Yeah that's not out yet."

"What?!" You exclaim, "This must be a mistake. The movie is out, I saw it on Twitter. I need to see this movie. It affirms the beliefs I hold dearly to my heart. You can't take this away from me, you have no idea what you're doing. You will regret this!"

The clerk just looks at you and replies, "Dude we're not airing it here yet. Come back next week."

With that, you are instantly saddened. You can tell that all eyes are on you, the joker wearing clown makeup to the theater. You cry on your bus ride home. The cute girl wasn't even there this time, so you didn't even get to look at any cute femoids. Just the fat black man and the vagrants whom are a disappoint to society. They'll never contribute like you.

You enter back into your home. Your dad is by the kitchen, monster in hand. He notices your ruined clown makeup. "What's with the clown face, son? Tryin' to be a girl? You're not one of them transgendereds I hope." You don't even reply.

You head downstairs into your room, locking the door behind you. You dejectedly fall onto your bed and lay down, your face still dripping with ruined and unwashed makeup. How could you fuck up this badly? No woman wants a man like you. No woman would ever accept you for the perfect male specimen that you are. As you roll over in bed, you look over to your end table. There lies the picture you printed out so long ago, framed in its beauty from the day it was printed.

It's a framed portrait of your role model, Elliot Rodgers. You pause for a moment, crying stifled, and pick up the picture. You stroke it gently. It brings you peace. It gives you clarity. You know now. You know what you are going to do.

You put the portrait down. You speak aloud, "Not today Elliot, not today."