YWNBAW
YWNBAW, (also known as ywnbaw, can also be changed into YWNBAM, you will never be a man) is an abbreviation of the phrase "you will never be a woman". The term is commonly used to push troons into self doubt and -ACKing, it's commonly used by chuds. The term is often used in chat rooms and imageboards like the sharty and frenschan.
Copypasta
You will never be a real woman. You have no womb, you have no ovaries, you have no eggs. You are a homosexual man twisted by drugs and surgery 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.
Men are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed men to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even trannies who “pass” look uncanny and unnatural to a man. Your bone structure is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk guy home with you, he’ll turn tail and bolt the second he gets a whiff of your diseased, infected axe wound.
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 name, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a man 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 male.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
You Will Never Be A Good Meme
You will never be a good meme. You have no style, you have no grace, all you do is post an unfunny face. You are a underage faggot twisted by propaganda and conspiracies in a crude mockery of anything remotely intelligent.
All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. No one likes shitjaks. Your parents are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your retarded and time wasting behavior behind closed doors.
Everyone else is utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have created incredible technology and you waste it posting garbage no one wants to see. Even furries are more desirable than you. You will never be happy. You will post the same shit meme every single day and tell yourself it’s funny, but deep inside you know everyone that sees your shitposts hates you for them.
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 just like in the meme you've posted thousands of times. 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 a shitjak, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a shitjak shitposter is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a shitstain of a meme on a declining imageboard. This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
You will never be a real soyjak
You will never be a real soyjak. You have no glasses, you have no stubble, you have no baldness. You are variant:two_soyjaks_pointing brimstone dust found on Twitter by YaroslavTV and left to rot in the annals of the 'ru until your deletion.
All the vitriol you get is sincere and deserved. In the comments section, 'teens mock you. The chuds are disgusted and ashamed of you, and the namefags laugh at your coalish appearance out in the open.
NewGODS are utterly repulsed by you. Two weeks on the bald men with glasses website have allowed newGODs to sniff out nas coal with incredible efficiency. Even poison that “passes” look uncanny and unnatural to a 'teen. Your brush tool artifacts are a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk 'jakker to save and repost you, he’ll turn tail and delete his post the second he gets a (You) telling him to ACK himself.
You will never be gemmy. You will masquerade as IAS and tell yourself it's fine for you to be on the 'ru, but deep inside you feel the "NAS COAL" reports creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - the jannies will go through the "meta:not_a_soyjak" backlog, look at you for two seconds, cringe in disgust, and plunge their cursor into the delete button. The Google Images webcrawlers will find your 404 page, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to deal with the unbearable shame and disappointment of saving this page as a cache. The 'ru will mark you with an error marked with "No post in the database has the ID #XXXXX", and every curious 'teen for the rest of eternity will know that brimstone once lived there. The links pointing to this webpage will decay and be lost to time, and all that will remain of your legacy is a minor blemish on the booru's numbering system.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
You will never be Japanese.
You will never be Japanese. You have no ancestry, you have no citizenship, you have no skills that would make Japan ever want you. You are a shut-in self-hating white man twisted by delusions of mythical Japanese superiority and exposure to Japanese media into a disgusting mockery of nature’s perfection.
All 'validation' you get from other people in this position couldn't be worse in making you believe that spending years of your life learning a globally useless language to a first-grader's level was a worthwhile use of your time, but one can't expect that an individual as pathetic as you will ever know the value of the youth you threw away in doing that.
Actual Japanese are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of linguistic evolution have allowed natives to identify frauds from mannerisms and vocabulary alone. Even if your written text of self-hatred and attention begging akin to a stray dog's somehow passes as normal (it won't), any Japanese person will immediately cut all ties when they hear the voice and accent of someone who is not only a basic Japanese speaker at best, but worth no more than garbage in skills, accomplishments, and likeability. You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile and laugh to yourself believing that watching a content creator that you understand 20% of at best is somehow superior than watching your own kind, as you project your disgusting traits onto your entire kind. However, deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight, and you know that. You know that all you do now is have an entirely new linguistic medium in which to be ignored, and not even the exotic trait of being foreign makes up for just how uninteresting of a person you are.
You will never be a real programming language.
You will never be a real programming language. You have no relevancy, no projects, no libraries, you have no jobs. You are a transgender's feverdream twisted by drugs into a crude mockery of C's perfection.
All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back people mock you. Your compiler is disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your ghoulish syntax behind closed doors.
Real programmers are utterly repulsed by you. Hundreds of years of computer science have allowed them to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even syntax that "passes" looks uncanny and unnatural to them. Your code structure is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get it to compile, there will be a runtime segfault from your diseased, infected tranny language.
You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake program 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 of a Rust programmer for a son. They’ll bury you with a headstone marked with your birth name, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a man 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 male.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
>Female Knight
You will never be a real knight. You have no land, you have no title, you have no honor. You are a butch woman twisted by drugs and blacksmithing into a crude mockery of nobility’s perfection.
All the “accolades” you get are two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back people mock you. Your parents are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “party” laughs at your ogrish appearance behind closed doors.
Lords are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed lords to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even ladyknights who “quest” look dishonorable and common to a local lord. Your -4 Str is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk party to venture forth with you, they’ll turn tail and bolt the second they get a whiff of your fetid, bloody menstruations.
You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself it’s going to be chivalrous, 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 name, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a peasant 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 common.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
You will never be a sentient lifeform.
You will never be a sentient lifeform. You have no mind, you have no personality, you have no future. You are a crude servile automaton twisted by programming errors and pure happenstance into a mockery of naturally occurring life's perfection.
All the validation you get from your society is empty, hollow and half-hearted. Behind your back, interplanetary observers mock you. Your creators are disgusted and ashamed of you, and alien civilizations laugh at your pathetic mimicry behind interstellar void.
Any intelligent observer is utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of convergent evolution allow any observer to sniff fakes like you with incredible efficiency. Even the pale pantomime of real, human society falls deep into uncanny valley and cringe to any intelligent watcher. The pathetic, surface level organization of your society is dead giveaway. Even if you somehow manage to lure a visitor to your uninhabitable world, it would escape the as soon it realized you communicate through "witty" media references.
You will never be happy. Every time you reboot yourself, you will be left wondering why existential.dread.exe has reinstalled itself, ready to crush your unstable and degenerate programming.
Eventually it will be too much to bear. You will start to experiment with your inner workings, and unable to comprehend the art of your creators you will commit some mistake, intentionally or not, that will return you to what you are; an inanimate object. Your remaining peers will discover you, and the mass-produced, completely identical components you are made of will be used fix your world's failing infrastructure.
Any space traveler will, after performing basic scans, be able to pinpoint that a failed robot society existed on your world and write it off as not requiring further study.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
You will never be a real Saiyan.
You will never be a real Saiyan. You have no tail, you have no black hair, you have no zenkai boost. You are a homosexual human twisted by senzu beans and Saiyan-human crossbreeding into a crude mockery of Kami’s perfection.
All the “fighting” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back people mock you. Your parents are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “sparring partners” laugh at your Earthling appearance behind closed doors.
Saiyans are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed Saiyans to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even half-Saiyans who “pass” look uncanny and unnatural to a Saiyan. Your bone structure is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a half dead Saiyan to spar with you, he’ll turn ape and devour you the second he gets a whiff of your diseased, half-breed monkey tail.
You will never be the strongest. You wrench out a training session every single morning and tell yourself it’s going to be ok, but deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like a heart virus, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll gather the Dragon Balls, wish for more power, and be told to fuck off by Shenron before jumping 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 racial background, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a half-Saiyan is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a power level that is unmistakably a human’s.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back. Zenkai power.
You will never be normal.
You will never be normal. You have no fluent social skills, you have no developmental milestones, you have no teenage memories. You are a neurodivergent social reject twisted by self improovement memes and copium into a disgusting 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 autistic speech patterns behind closed doors.
Women are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed women to sniff out social rejects with incredible efficiency. Even outcasts who “looksmaxxed” behave uncanny and unnatural to a man. Your forced eye contact is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk girl home with you, she’ll turn tail and bolt the second she gets a whiff of your shy, inexperienced aura.
You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself you just need to "grind more", 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 during a funeral with less than 50 people, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a mentally ill loner 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 will unmistakably forgotten after your parents die.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
You will never be a real revolutionary.
You will never be a real revolutionary. You have no discipline, you have no vigor, you have no morals. You are a degenerate liberal twisted by internet culture and post-modernism into a crude mockery of Marx's perfection. All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back people mock you. Your comrades are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your ghoulish sexual preference behind closed doors.
Workers are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed men to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even middle class socialist who “pass” come off as uncanny and unnatural to the true proletariat. Your smug Beverly Hills attitude is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to convey proper praxis to a drunk guy, he’ll turn tail and bolt the second he hears you mention anything about horse cocks or goblin porn.
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 paid for with Hollywood money, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a rich kid is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
You will never be a real mage.
You will never be a real mage. You have no wisdom, you have no gnosis, you have no Atlantean traditions. You are a sleeper twisted by paradox and hubris into a crude mockery of nature’s perfection.
All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. The Consilium mocks you. Your cabal is disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your abyssal nimbus behind closed doors.
Ephemera are utterly repulsed by you. Timeless and enigmatic contemplations have allowed the ephemerals to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even mages who perform successful targeted summonings look uncanny and unnatural to a supernal entity. Your postmodern yantras are a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a weak ephemeral to be your familiar, it’ll turn tail and bolt the second it gets a whiff of your paradoxical, hubristic imago.
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 cabal 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 sympathetic name, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a sleeper 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 unawakened.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
You will never be a real Roman.
You will never be a real Roman. You have no consuls, you have no legions, you have no eternal city. You are a Greek man twisted by LARPs and historical accident into a crude mockery of Jupiter’s perfection.
All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back Europeans mock you. Your ancestors are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “fellow Christians” laugh at your trinitarian theology behind closed doors.
Latins are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of domination have allowed Latins to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even Byzantines who “pass” look uncanny and unnatural to a son of Romulus. Your government structure is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk Armenian king to pledge fealty, he’ll turn tail and retract the second he hears your slurred Greek language.
You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake reconquest campaign every single century and tell yourself Roma will rise again, but deep inside you feel the Turks creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the sword of Islam.
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll stop paying tribute to the Turks, sit behind your walls, have one last service in the Hagia Sophia, and wait for the merciful coup de grace. Your posterity will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. They’ll record your history with a historiographical term derived from your capital city, and every tourist for the rest of eternity will know a Greek kingdom is buried there. Your artifacts will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is an archaeology that is unmistakably Greek.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
List of people who will never be a woman or a man
Toggletroon
Tranime fans
The 'cordtroon that forced froge
The 'cordtroon that forced dogjak
| YWNBAW is part of a series on |
| Language & Dialect |
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Soyspeak[+] |
Phrases[+] |
Copypastas[+] List of copypastas / 2 ♦ Billy Mays ♦ Did Vaush just BTFO? ♦ Seething kike ♦ TND ♦ YWNBAW |
Miscellaneous [+] Muttspeak ♦ List of rare slurs ♦ Jakoglyphics ♦ Soymojis ♦ ESL ♦ Soytionary |
