You will never be a real irishman. You have no DUIs, you have no red hair, you have no four-leafed clover. You are a British man twisted by vtubers and national shame into a crude mockery of nature’s drunk.
All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back bartenders mock you. Your parents are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your British demeanor behind closed doors.
Paddies are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of alcoholism have allowed paddies to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even Brits who “pass” look uncanny and unnatural to a paddy. Your preference for tea is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk Bostonian foxgirl home with you, she’ll turn tail and bolt the second she gets a whiff of your diseased, infected teeth.
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 then get murdered by the police for not possessing a rope license. 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 birth name, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a Brit 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 British.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back bartenders mock you. Your parents are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your British demeanor behind closed doors.
Paddies are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of alcoholism have allowed paddies to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even Brits who “pass” look uncanny and unnatural to a paddy. Your preference for tea is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk Bostonian foxgirl home with you, she’ll turn tail and bolt the second she gets a whiff of your diseased, infected teeth.
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 then get murdered by the police for not possessing a rope license. 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 birth name, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a Brit 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 British.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
