You will never be real competition. You have no history, you have no milly, you have no memes. You are smarks twisted by HRT and VDS into a crude mockery of pro wrestling fans. All the “pops” AEW gets are insincere and out of obligation. Behind your back, insiders mock you. Wrestling legends are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at Orange Cassidy and Danhausen behind closed doors. Men are utterly repulsed by you. Decades of wrestling history have allowed men to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even vanilla midgets who “draw” look uncanny and unnatural to a man. Your bone structure is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get Will Ospreay to win the big one for you, he’ll get squashed by an actual pro wrestler the moment the TV ratings come in. You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself it’s going to be ok, 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 bury you with a headstone marked with "WWE superfan", and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a WWE fan is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a parade of NJPW wrestlers not getting pops, because you couldn't recognize their theme songs.