You will never be a real bioweapons expert. You have no STEM degree, you have no lab training, you have no scientific publications. You are a journalism major twisted by narcissism and paranoia into a crude mockery of academia'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 failed predictions behind closed doors.
Scientists are utterly repulsed by you. Years of education and experience have allowed real scientists to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even journalists who “pass” sound uncanny and unnatural to a scientist. Your journalism degree is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk scientist to interview with you, he’ll turn tail and bolt the second he gets a look at your sad, pathetic twitter trophies.
You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself the die off is surely going to happen, 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 write your obituary with a story which will inevitably mention your true profession, and every reader for the rest of eternity will know a gaming journalist 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 a failed gaming journalist.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.