Despite professing not to drink, he gladly takes a large gulp of Pinot Grigio, the third glass of the night, and wonders if his life is destined to be nothing more than a slow drowning in mediocrity. A quick glance at his iPad reveals a Zillow page for Boise, the latest escape fantasy shimmering like a mirage in his mind.

But even escapist fantasies can't fully distract him from the omnipresent Chad. His phone vibrates with a notification—another gym selfie from the object of his affection. This time, Chad is shirtless, captioned, "Just another grind." To Evan, it’s a taunt—a subtle dig at his sedentary, prole-infested existence. Chad knows. Evan’s fingers fly across the keyboard, composing witty, self-deprecating, and ultimately unsent DMs. "If only he could see the real me," he sighs, before throwing his phone onto the velvet chaise lounge (proles buy microfiber, he reminds himself!) and returning to his carefully curated Pinterest board, "If Chad Knew the Real Me."

A pang of hunger interrupts his reverie, pulling him back to the insult he suffered earlier. He opens the Yelp app, his fingers trembling with righteous anger. This is no mere review; it’s a public service announcement, a warning to future diners about the horrors that await them at that gastronomic gulag. He meticulously crafts his critique, titling it “A Tilapia Tragedy in Three Acts.”

Act I: The Arrival—warm tap water, unprompted.

Act II: The Entrée—an overcooked filet, masquerading as sophistication.

Act III: The Aftermath—a vow to never return.

It’s his magnum opus, an exposé he believes will surely send shockwaves through SeaTTTle’s dining scene.

Meanwhile, the glow of his iPad tempts him back into the depths of Zillow. His eyes linger on Boise listings until a new tab opens—the Peace Corps website. A fleeting thought grips him: What if I brought culture to the unwashed masses? In his mind’s eye, he’s a hero. The village children gather as he opens a bottle of Chardonnay, lecturing on the nuanced differences between New World and Old World wines. A local elder weeps, humbled by the enlightenment.

Finally, with a sigh that could rival a Shakespearean tragedy, Evan sets down his empty glass and leans back in his faux-leather ergonomic chair (proles buy real leather, he reminds himself again…). As the clock strikes midnight, he whisper$ to himself, “The world may never deserve me.” He closes his eyes, a martyr to his own brilliance, drifting off to sleep with one final, whispered lament:

“How dare they.”

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5636059&forum_id=2:#48350533)