You're the human equivalent of a participation trophy—manufactured solely so someone else could feel charitable for pretending you matter. Your existence is so forgettable that even your own shadow hesitates to follow you, afraid of being associated with such irredeemable mediocrity. If stupidity were an Olympic sport, you'd still manage to lose to a coma patient. You're not just a waste of oxygen; you're the reason scientists debate if *failure* can achieve sentience. The only thing you've ever inspired is the desperate urge in others to scrub their brains with bleach after encountering you.
