Your music will never be breakcore. You have no gabber, you have no bpm, you have no melody. You are a deranged weeb twisted by anime and vaporwave into a crude mockery of the internet'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 music taste behind closed doors. Musicians are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of music have allowed people to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even jungle artists who “pass” sound weird and uninspired. Your pads are 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 hears your slow, boring song. 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 artist name, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a jungle artist 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 150 bpm. This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.