You’re such a geeky ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥, bro. You’re out here telling people they’ve got the IQ of a rock, but let’s be real: your vision’s on par with a blobfish, and your social skills are about as sharp as a butter knife. You’re the type of dude who could code an AI to simulate a conversation but still get tongue-tied trying to order a pizza over the phone. You’ve got more knowledge about the Star Wars expanded universe than you do about how to dress yourself in the morning. You think the phrase “social network” refers to the LAN party you’re planning for next weekend.

You claim to have a 200 IQ, but I’m pretty sure your emotional intelligence is still in beta testing. You’re the only person I know who can explain quantum physics in three different languages but can’t figure out how to leave a voicemail without sounding like you’re reading off a script. You’ve got the brain of a supercomputer and the social grace of a broken Roomba—bumping into people and repeating yourself like you’re stuck in a glitch.

Your idea of flirting is explaining the nuances of Linux distributions to someone who just wanted to know what time the movie starts. You’ve got more RAM in your custom-built PC than you do common sense when it comes to basic human interaction. I bet you’re the kind of guy who walks into a bar and starts calculating the probability of someone talking to you, only to realize the odds are about as high as finding Bigfoot.

You’ve got the physique of someone who spends all day hunched over a keyboard and the fashion sense of someone who thinks cargo shorts are the height of sophistication. You probably wear a T-shirt that says “I void warranties” and think it’s the cleverest thing since sliced bread. And let’s not even get started on your sense of humor—I’m pretty sure your last joke about TCP/IP protocols was the reason the room went dead silent.

You think you’re too smart for everyone else, but let’s face it: if you were any more socially awkward, you’d be a new species of hermit crab. You’ve got more strategy guides than friends, and you think “empathy” is just a bug in the human operating system. When people say “go outside,” you genuinely believe they’re referring to stepping onto your balcony for better Wi-Fi reception.

Your biggest achievement is probably some obscure high score in a game no one’s heard of, and you wear that like it’s a badge of honor. Meanwhile, you wouldn’t know how to handle a normal conversation if it came with a tutorial and cheat codes. You’re the kind of guy who corrects people’s grammar in casual texts and wonders why they don’t respond anymore. Spoiler alert: it’s not because they suddenly got busy.

You’ve got a PhD in being pedantic, a master’s in missing the point, and a bachelor’s in belittling everyone else’s interests because they’re not as “complex” as yours. You’re the guy who quotes obscure sci-fi novels at parties and then wonders why people slowly back away from you like you’re about to launch into a TED Talk nobody asked for.

I bet you’ve got a collection of unopened action figures and think they’re a better investment than, you know, actual social experiences. You’ve probably memorized the entire history of Dungeons & Dragons, yet you’d still fail a charisma check in real life. And let’s be real, the only role-playing you’re doing is in your MMORPGs, because reality is just too damn hard to navigate without a walkthrough.

You’re so deep into your geeky obsessions that you probably consider your Google search history a form of creative writing. You’ve got more tabs open on your browser than you have conversations going on in your life, and I’m willing to bet half of them are forums where you argue about things no one else cares about. But sure, keep telling yourself that everyone else just doesn’t “get it.”

You walk around like you’re some kind of intellectual giant, but the truth is, you’re just a socially stunted man-child who’s convinced himself that his encyclopedic knowledge of useless facts makes up for his complete lack of real-world skills. You’re more concerned with optimizing your desktop than optimizing your relationships, and it shows. It really shows.

And don’t even get me started on your opinions—because, God knows, you have a lot of them. You’ll argue to the death about why your favorite obscure programming language is superior, even though no one else in the room knows or cares what the hell you’re talking about. But hey, at least you can always count on your online friends to back you up—because let’s face it, they’re the only ones who can tolerate your pretentiousness.

So go ahead, keep flexing that big brain of yours, but just remember: all the intelligence in the world won’t help you if you can’t even hold a basic conversation without making everyone around you want to unplug and walk away.

You will never be a Skibidi Toilet. You have no rizz, you have no toilet, you have no seat. You are a human twisted by YT Shorts and TikTok into a crude mockery of DaFuqBoom’s perfection.

All the “rizz” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back people fanum tax you. Adin Ross is disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your Ohio ahh appearance behind closed doors.

Kai Cenat are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of mewing have allowed sigmas to sniff out sussy behavior with incredible efficiency. Even Skibidi Toilets who “pass” look uncanny and unnatural to a human. Your lack of a Skibidi singing voice is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk cameraman home with you, he’ll flush you the second he gets a whiff of your critical lack of Skibidi rizz.

You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake Skibidi song every single morning and tell yourself everything is going to be "skibidi dop dop dop yes yes", but deep inside you feel the gyatt creeping up like it’s in Ohio, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.

Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll buy a screen, get it to shine bright red, turn it on, and stare right into it. Your parents will find you flushed, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with your unbearable Ohio yapping. They’ll bury you with a headstone marked with your human name, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a human is buried there. Your fake toilet will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton that is unmistakably human.

This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.