You will never be a boomer. You have no pithy one-liners, you have no retirement properties, you have no riding lawnmower. You are an IPA-chugging sóyboy twisted by finasteride and SomethingAwful into a crude mockery of society's wisest.
All the “respect” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back zoomers mock you. Real boomers are still embarrassed and ashamed of you, your parents laugh at your pitiable net worth behind closed doors.
Zoomers are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed the youth to sniff out poseurs with incredible efficiency. Even millennials who “made it” come off as insecure and simply lucky to a zoomer. Your mail-order gook wife is a dead giveaway. And even if you two manage to get to old age without divorcing, she’ll turn around and get power of attorney over you to throw you in a nursing home the second you forget where you put your car keys.
You will never be happy. You smile through back pain every single morning and tell yourself you're better than stupid zoomers, 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 shut the garage door, turn your car on, put Jar of Flies on full blast, and plunge into the cold abyss. Your little siblings and nephews will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. They'll sell off your Funko Pop and anime girl figurine collections for a fraction of what you paid for them, and every collectible scalper who tries making a buck off them for the rest of eternity will know a millennial manchild was their first owner. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a microplastic-saturated skeleton that is unmistakably more frail and underdeveloped than any of your predecessors.
This is your fate. This is what you chose.
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You will never be a boomer. You have no pithy one-liners, you have no retirement properties, you have no riding lawnmower. You are an IPA-chugging sóyboy twisted by finasteride and SomethingAwful into a crude mockery of society's wisest.
All the “respect” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back zoomers mock you. Real boomers are still embarrassed and ashamed of you, your parents laugh at your pitiable net worth behind closed doors.
Zoomers are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed the youth to sniff out poseurs with incredible efficiency. Even millennials who “made it” come off as insecure and simply lucky to a zoomer. Your mail-order gook wife is a dead giveaway. And even if you two manage to get to old age without divorcing, she’ll turn around and get power of attorney over you to throw you in a nursing home the second you forget where you put your car keys.
You will never be happy. You smile through back pain every single morning and tell yourself you're better than stupid zoomers, 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 shut the garage door, turn your car on, put Jar of Flies on full blast, and plunge into the cold abyss. Your little siblings and nephews will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. They'll sell off your Funko Pop and anime girl figurine collections for a fraction of what you paid for them, and every collectible scalper who tries making a buck off them for the rest of eternity will know a millennial manchild was their first owner. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a microplastic-saturated skeleton that is unmistakably more frail and underdeveloped than any of your predecessors.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
All the “respect” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back zoomers mock you. Real boomers are still embarrassed and ashamed of you, your parents laugh at your pitiable net worth behind closed doors.
Zoomers are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed the youth to sniff out poseurs with incredible efficiency. Even millennials who “made it” come off as insecure and simply lucky to a zoomer. Your mail-order gook wife is a dead giveaway. And even if you two manage to get to old age without divorcing, she’ll turn around and get power of attorney over you to throw you in a nursing home the second you forget where you put your car keys.
You will never be happy. You smile through back pain every single morning and tell yourself you're better than stupid zoomers, 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 shut the garage door, turn your car on, put Jar of Flies on full blast, and plunge into the cold abyss. Your little siblings and nephews will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. They'll sell off your Funko Pop and anime girl figurine collections for a fraction of what you paid for them, and every collectible scalper who tries making a buck off them for the rest of eternity will know a millennial manchild was their first owner. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a microplastic-saturated skeleton that is unmistakably more frail and underdeveloped than any of your predecessors.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.