Let’s get this out of the way: I’m not asking for immortality. Not now. Not here. Not on this melting rock with Wi-Fi.

One life is already more than enough. In fact, if there’s a cosmic suggestion box somewhere, I’d like to formally request an early checkout. Nothing dramatic. Just… a quiet fade-out, maybe during a meeting that could’ve been an email.

Because here’s the truth: existing in 2025 feels like being trapped inside a group project with 8 billion people who are just winging it and barely surviving . Our governments are stage plays directed by lobbyists. Our jobs with the help of AI have become meaningless, they now feel like VR simulations of purpose. And the planet? The planet is throwing very obvious signs that it’s done with us—but we keep clapping back with paper straws and LinkedIn posts about ESG goals that most companies do not even follow and they just greenwash

We treat burnout like a badge of honor and unpaid internships like opportunities. Meanwhile, billionaires are trying to leave Earth, which is honestly the first time trickle-down economics has ever made sense.

Let’s start with the jobs.

We’re not working—we’re serving time. We don’t start our days, we brace for them.

Your boss says, “We’re a family,” which is true if your family also gaslights you, forgets your birthday, and schedules 4pm calls titled “Quick Sync” that ruin your will to live. Most of them are just horrible people with money and nothing else.

You write emails that sound like ransom notes:
“Just following up.”
“Circling back.”
“Let me know your thoughts.”
Translation: I’m screaming into the void and hoping someone replies before I lose my health insurance and my sanity.

The dating scene?

It’s not a scene. It’s a digital flea market of trauma responses and filtered delusions. We swipe like gamblers at a slot machine, praying for dopamine. Someone texts “LOL” and you’re supposed to feel loved. Someone ghosts you and you wonder if it’s growth. You spend three weeks texting someone who can’t spell “your” before they vanish like your pension.

The economy?

A satire. A fever dream.

Rent is extremely high in relation to your wage for a glorified closet with “natural light” (read: a window the size of a tortilla). Your neighbor’s an aspiring DJ who believes in himself more than your country believes in healthcare that most governments are now destroying.

You’re paying 9€ for a smoothie that tastes like regret and blended ice. You ask if it has mango. The barista nods solemnly. It doesn’t.

Meanwhile, your bank app reminds you that you spent €80 last week trying to feel something on a bad date, and the rest on food that lies to you.

And the planet?

We are literally watching the world burn—and responding with infographics and tote bags.

Ocean temperatures are boiling. Species are vanishing. And we’re still arguing whether “thoughts and prayers” count as climate policy.

Governments stage press conferences while wildfires stage reality checks. Billionaires build rockets, not reform. And every time something collapses, someone says, “No one could’ve predicted this.”

Really?
Because I’ve seen three Black Mirror episodes and one weather app.

The performance of pretending

We’re all actors now. Pretending it’s fine.
Pretending we’re passionate about digital transformation and AI
Pretending we’re excited about our quarterly goals.
Pretending we’re thriving on “hustle culture” when we’re just afraid to stop and feel the dread crawling up our spines.

We don’t live.
We optimize.
We curate.
We reply-all.

And then, at night, we collapse into beds, doom-scroll until our brains melt, and dream of inbox zero and existential freedom.

So no, I don’t want another life.

I don’t need reincarnation. I need a refund.
One life is already too much paperwork, too many passwords, and too many people saying, “Let’s circle back on that.”

I’ve had enough.
Enough of the charades, the fake people, the collapsing systems, the performative empathy, the inspirational quotes printed on ethically questionable t-shirts.
Enough pretending this is fine. It’s not.
It’s bizarre. It’s broken. It’s brilliant in how absurd it is. And we’re all just improvising while the curtain burns.

So here’s to you, fellow scroller.
You’re not crazy.
The world is.
And you?
You’re just trying to make it to 5pm.