Modernity tricked us. It told us to leave behind our families, our neighborhoods, our support systems, all for the illusion of progress. We scattered ourselves across cities, chasing jobs and promotions, trading real connection for the shallow promise of success.

Now we pay for what we used to get from community. Daycare. After‑school programs. Institutions to babysit our kids until we clock out and stumble home. Most people are lucky if they get a couple of hours with their family before collapsing into the next round of pointless chores.

And those chores? They’re the socially required proof of normalcy. Evidence that you’re playing along. The lawn, the weeding, the trimming, the endless maintenance of a life that looks good from the street. Not because it means anything, but because we’ve been told it does.

Let the illusion slip and you’re branded a freak. Let your grass die, let your schedule breathe, let your priorities shift, and suddenly you’re suspect. Worthy of gossip.

Because in the barren desert of modern life, where almost every choice is hollow and every path pre‑approved, the worst crime is to stop pretending any of it is real.

So shave your legs. Your armpits. Make sure your hair follows the unspoken rules of society. Otherwise you might just find yourself headlining a People of Walmart shame reel, sentenced to digital exile by a jury of bored internet assholes.