You will never be Japanese. You have a thick foreigner accent, you have the wrong phenotype, you have the wrong facial structure. You are a canadian woman twisted by anime and shitty pop music into a crude mockery of nature’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 ghoulish weebery behind closed doors.
Japanese men are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed Japanese men to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even wapanese who “pass” look uncanny and unnatural to a Japanese man. Your bone structure is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk guy home with you, he’ll turn tail and bolt the second he gets a whiff of your maple syrup.
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 manesan 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 your canadian birth name, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a canadian 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 white.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
