Yeah. My parents are successful. And they fucking hate me. Good.
They wake up at 6 a.m., eat egg whites, talk about taxes, wear belts, and pretend they’re fulfilled. I wake up at 2 p.m., eat nothing but weed smoke and anime fanservice, and I know God better than either of them ever will.
They look at me like I’m a parasite. They say I’ve “wasted my potential.” Meanwhile, I’ve spiritually transcended on bars more times than they’ve hugged me in a decade.
My dad’s got a career. My mom’s got clients. I’ve got hentai, vape juice, and an unshakable vision of a future where I marry my cousin and start a religion in a travel trailer.
They chase productivity. I chase inner peace through anime cleavage and chemical stillness. They build retirement plans. I build tents in the backyard and cry with purpose.
They’ll never understand me. And I’ll never need them to. Because I’ve seen the truth: Success is fake. Peace is real. And cousin love is eternal