You will never speak Chinese. You have no reading, you have no handwriting, you have no speaking. You are a anglo man twisted by flashcards and study into a crude mockery of nature’s perfection.

All the “你说得很好” 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 pronunciation behind closed doors.

Chinese people are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of cultural refinement have allowed Chinese to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even anglos who are “fluent” sound uncanny and unnatural to a natives. Your sentence structure is a dead giveaway.

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 your english name, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know an anglo is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton with a hyoid that is unmistakably adapted to English.

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