ABOUT THE POEM: Ronie Dinosaur is not a children’s story. It is a living, bleeding autobiography disguised as mythic poetry, written by a man who turned himself into a tiny-armed T-Rex to survive a lifetime of romantic and sexual rejection. The series began as nostalgic heartbreak over “Frooti” – a college girl who teased, flirted, fed him sweets, and vanished the moment he asked for more – but it has since metastasised into a brutal philosophy of scarcity, transaction, and male rage. Chapter 9 mapped the entire origin: first love at first sight in school, instant rejection at recess, two silent years of longing, depression, the birth of Ronie Dinosaur through solitary 4 a.m. jogging, the false hope of Frooti, detention, separation, a suicide attempt at 21 on 13 August with a blade across wrists and forearms, three years of total silence, and the final corridor encounter where she asked “Oye, why don’t you talk to me?” and he simply walked away. Chapter 10 – “It Grosses Me Out” – is the radioactive core. Here the mask is off. The speaker admits the darkest engine behind his desire for fame: he wants his grief to become so loud, so undeniable, that the same women who only ever sold him affection will finally offer their bodies for free – or at least pay with attention to ignore him. Fame is not about money or worship; it is revenge by inversion of the market that priced him out of love his entire life. Every woman who ever touched him asked for cash first. Every “no” was a receipt. So the scars, the suicide attempt, the dinosaur persona – all of it is weaponised into a bargaining chip: if love must be transactional, he will become the most expensive silence on earth. The poem ends in absolute refusal: no gods, no gurus, no borrowed wisdom, no avatars, no followers, no mercy. Ronie Dinosaur digests the rot of the human circus – the pretending, the bargaining, the fairy tales – and grows harder scales. He is not asking for redemption; he is declaring independence from a species that never chose him. This is incel-adjacent philosophy without the violence, only colder: a man who has accepted extinction and decided to make it legendary on his own terms. In short, Ronie Dinosaur is the unfiltered diary of a generation of quiet, high-character Indian men who studied, earned, waited – and discovered the promised love never arrives without a price tag. Chapter 10 is the moment the diary stops begging and starts billing the world.Ronie Dinosaur Chapter 10 – It Grosses Me Out
Let me tell it straight.
The fame I want is private,
measured one witness at a time,
validated only in the dark
by the reflection that never lies.
I don’t want money.
Never did.
I want to give my grief to women
so they finally hand over their ass
without quoting a rate.
Because every woman who ever gave me anything
first asked for cash.
My sorrow turned into ambition.
My hurt turned into leverage.
A man priced since birth
wants to invert the market once.
Just once.
This is where Ronie Dinosaur
stops being a character
and becomes a philosophy:
a creature hammered out of scarcity,
trading open scars for the only currency
that ever made them wet.
Each step doubles the wound.
Each footprint adds insult.
Real translation:
If I can’t be loved for free,
I’ll make them pay
to ignore me.
That’s the costliest silence
anyone ever bought.
No day, no night-nothing in, nothing out.
When the fire dies, the human dies.
I die a dinosaur, bone and scale,
no king, no slave, no grail.
No god, no devotee, no win, no loss.
I never lived, so death can’t cross.
Fate sits clenched in my useless fist.
I wrote the ending.
I kneel to no one.
Kids got kisses; I got air.
The whore just stared-dead eyes,
as if my hunger was beneath repair.
My thirst still burns
while her flesh bakes.
How many years in a stinking hole
before the rot climbs from body to soul?
They preached: “Study, earn, succeed-love will come.”
Liars planting fairy tales
while only filth sticks and never fails.
Every woman chose another face.
“I’m not interested” sealed my place.
As if I asked J-Lo for her insured ass-
absurd, outrageous, beneath her class.
I blamed them-transactional whores-
never learned the right coin, the right lie, the right grin.
Emotionally crippled, born to lose, born to sin.
No followers, no likes, no pet, no fly.
No takeout girlfriend money can buy.
I loved too hard; only loss remained.
World Cup of losers-crown is mine.
Still I stand every time I’m down.
If character counts, why don’t I win?
Feels like the cosmos hates my skin.
Only spell that works:
Stability.
Sobriety.
No fear of hell.
Three cold coins forge a mind of steel-
common sense sharpened
not to kneel to the world that priced me out,
but to the cage that screams inside.
Push.
Adjust.
Push again.
Ignore the flinch, the rage, the pain.
Wait for the shift-
the cage grows tired under my breath.
Most men beg.
Most men threaten.
Most men quit.
The original stays silent
until the bars drop the key
just to be rid of him.
I never saw Shiva reading a book,
nor Jesus, Ram, Buddha checking verses.
Even Elon stays empty-
no poems, no quotes, no borrowed light.
None of them asked
why the broken shout loud,
why the world wastes hours on
the discarded crowd,
why the world feeds on scraps
from a man no one chose-
a poet, a thinker, a dinosaur ghost.
I read no one.
Drink no one’s wine.
Stay pure-
uncontaminated, untouched,
original line after original line.
Does it gross me out?
Yes.
The whole human circus stinks-
bargaining, pretending, transactional sweat.
But disgust is just another chain.
I name it and keep walking.
A dinosaur does not vomit.
He digests the rot
and grows harder scales.
Brand becomes legend,
legend becomes myth,
myth becomes character,
lived character becomes philosophy,
philosopher becomes god.
I’m not chasing that kind of fame.
They got it because the mob forced a crown
on heads too stupid to refuse it.
What would I do
with a halo from this circus?
What use is a throne
in the eyes of people
I wouldn’t trust with a single truth?
The ones I wanted are gone-
almost three decades now.
Not once did they see me,
not even in the rear-view mirror.
And I don’t expect them
to make a U-turn
for a loser who bleeds shame
and dares to call it wisdom.
So burn the book down and walk away from the ashes.
Forget it absolutely.
Let it gross me out.
Let it make them famous for ignoring me.
Ronie Dinosaur
Original
No avatars
No followers
No mercy
No end.
___________________________________________________________________
Question 9: asked here : Ronie Dinosaur Chapter 9 – Frooti
What must I have done instead of just keep walking and what she actually meant when she was asking loudly, why I don’t talk to her?
Answer: The chapter itself is the answer. And she didn’t want to give anything to me, she just wanted absolution. people might argue she might looking for her friend. It is not a movie script. Those who didn’t give me love and friendship when the wound was new, the smell was fresh, if they didn’t melt then, then after years, they are just trying their luck, nothing else.
____________________________________________________________________
Exercise for anyone who wants to answer:
Write your answer in the comments.
Question 10 :
I never saw Shiva reading a book,
nor Jesus, Ram, Buddha checking verses.
Even Elon stays empty-
no poems, no quotes, no borrowed light.
None of them asked
why the broken shout loud,
why the world wastes hours on
the discarded crowd,
why the world feeds on scraps
from a man no one chose-
a poet, a thinker, a dinosaur ghost.
What does this stanza mean?
[…] ___________________________________________________________________ Question 10: asked here : Ronie Dinosaur Chapter 10 – It Grosses Me Out […]
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