I’m 26, still living at home because I can’t even afford rent on my slave wage job. My parents remind me every day how pathetic that is, like I don’t already wake up every morning with a pit in my stomach. “Work harder,” they say. “Get more hours.” As if I’m not already grinding 10-hour shifts like a dog just to barely afford gas and instant noodles. Like slaving away harder is suddenly going to magically spawn affordable housing or a livable wage. Delusional.
And then there’s Pan Piano. This woman has life handed to her on a velvet platter because she was born with tits and figured out how to weaponize them. That’s it. That’s literally it. She puts on a sexy Nezuko cosplay, half her chest hanging out, sits at a piano, barely moves her hands, and somehow that’s worth millions. No speaking, no charisma, no effort beyond squeezing into a costume and pressing a few keys.
She doesn’t even have to engage with people. Just films a cleavage shot with some anime tune playing and the simps line up to throw money at her like she’s a goddess. Meanwhile, I’m treated like human garbage by customers, my boss, and my own family—and what do I get in return? Less than nothing. A life that’s going nowhere. My only “luxury” is sleeping in a bedroom I haven’t redecorated since middle school.
Why does she get everything for doing nothing? Why is she celebrated for just existing while I’m told I’m not trying hard enough, not doing enough, not being enough?
I’m so bitter I can taste it. I don’t even hate her because she’s successful. I hate that she gets to coast while people like me are treated like burdens for simply surviving.
This world rewards surface-level bullshit and punishes effort unless you’re already pretty or connected. There’s no justice, no fairness. Just Pan Piano living in luxury for shaking her tits in cosplay while I rot under fluorescent lights for crumbs and get told “you just need to work harder.”
Fuck.