You are born. You are assigned a number, a future, and a flag to worship. Your life consists of a series of swipes and scrolls and meaningless late night purchases. You chase serotonin like it's waiting to be found in the next Instagram Reel. Spoiler alert: it's not. You wake up each morning with a spiritual limp. Your moral compass spins like a fidget toy in the hands of a porn-addicted pre-teen. And there it is, the cheap handgun resting in the palm of your hand. You don't just want to die, that'd would be to quick and generous. You want the concussion. You want the shockwave. You want the ringing in your ears to finally drown out the TikTok video that's been playing on repeat for ten minutes. This is not a cry for help. This is the beginning of the solution.