>>508901801 (OP)
You will never be a war hero. You have no rizz, you have no athleticism, you have no aim. You are a suicidal boy twisted by propaganda and first-person shooters into a crude mockery of Patrick Tillman.
All the admiration you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back women mock you. Your she-boon commanding officers are disgusted and ashamed of you, your friends laugh at your uniform behind closed doors.
Former servicemen are utterly repulsed by you. Decades of forever wars have allowed them to sniff out liabilities with incredible efficiency. Even trannies on your team show more physical fitness and aptitude than you. Your thick glasses are a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get an enemy combatant in your crosshairs, he'll retreat the second he gets a whiff of your urine-soaked boxers.
You will never be happy. You wrench out a half-assed salute every single morning and tell yourself it's going to be ok, but deep inside you feel PTSD creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.
Eventually it'll be too much to bear - you'll freeze up in an open field with a $50 Temu drone hovering above you and die in a cloud of warm pink mist. Your parents will recieve a letter stating that you died in a training accident, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. They'll sign-off on a park bench with your name on it and every crackhead for the rest of eternity will know a zogbot sucker is commemorated there. Your body will decay in the fetal position, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton of an unremarkable coward.
This is your fate. This is what you signed a 2-year contract for. There is no turning back.
