>>21094378You’ll never be a real Turkic. You are a Slavic man twisted by Uralic grammar and we wuzzing into a crude mockery of nature’s perfection.
All the “validation” you get from the Turkic Council is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back they mock you. Your neighbors are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “V4 friends” laugh at your ghoulish Mongolian LARP costumes behind closed doors.
Turkics are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution on the Central Asian steppes have allowed Turkic men to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even those few “passing” slanty-eyed Magyars who descend from 14th century Cumans look uncanny and unnatural to a Turkic man. Your Slavic bone structure is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk Kazakh guy home with you to drink kumis, he’ll turn tail and bolt the second he gets a whiff of your diseased, infected Slavic loan words and prefix-perfective conjugated verbs.
You’ll never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning, put on your imitation Oghur Turk robes and sling your small nomadic horseback bow around your back, and tell yourself it’s going to be ok. But every time you look in the mirror and see a Slav, 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, put on Gloomy Sunday, tie a noose, put it around your neck, and plunge into the cold abyss. Your neighboring Slavic brethren will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. They’ll bury you with a headstone marked in a West Slavic language, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a Slav 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 R1a, with no N to be seen.
