The American Dream, that technicolor hallucination flickering on the screen of your youth, melts into static. it’s a roach motel. Checkin’ in easy, checkin’ out? Forget about it. The Boomers, fattened on Reagan’s trickle-down that never trickled, hoard their loot in gilded cages on the hill. This, chums, is Financial Nihilism, a virus lodged deep in the social organism.

Boomers huddled over the loot like irradiated vultures. Upward mobility? More like upward futility. Stuck in the roach motel of stagnant wages, you stare through the greasy window at their McMansions, their yachts, a technicolor nightmare of conspicuous consumption.

Cost of living, a monstrous chrome centipede, writhes across your meager paycheck, leaving only lint and despair. A bloated, pulsating pustule, sucking the lifeblood from every paycheck. That upward climb? It’s a greased pole, laughter echoing from the penthouse as you slide, perpetually downwards

The numbers, cold and hard like a junkie’s fix, scream the truth: median home prices, a grotesque parody of inflation, ballooned to obscene heights, while median income shrinks to the size of a dime under a steamroller. The whole damn system, a rigged casino, stacked against you from the get-go.

This whole game is a sham, a shell game where the pea is always under the magician’s greasy thumb.” You see through the facade, the bullshit baffles, the glittering illusions. This, my friend, is “

A Lack of Pretense That Any of This Shit Does Anything or Will Ever Do Anything.”

The media, greasy carnival barkers, they shill the same tired game. “Just work harder!” they holler, their voices dripping with manufactured sincerity. But the hustle ain’t cutting it anymore. The air crackles with a lack of pretense, a bitter knowing that this whole goddamn system is rigged.

Extraction Mode, baby, that’s the name of the game. Every corporation, every politician, a leech with a thousand dollar suit. They’re sucking the marrow from the American Dream, leaving behind a hollow shell. And you, my friend, you’re stuck on the bottom rung, the roach motel keycard burning a hole in your pocket.

Everywhere you look, a ravenous hunger, a desperate scramble for scraps. Extraction Mode, a cyberpunk nightmare bleeding into reality. Everyone’s a shark, teeth bared, circling the blood in the water. The suits on Wall Street, the politicians in Washington, all leeches fattened on the lifeblood of the system.

So you’re stuck at the bottom of the feeding frenzy, what are your options? You clutch your meager savings, a pathetic wad of bills damp with sweat.

Gamble, man, gamble with the devil himself. Crypto, meme stocks? Day trading? Anything to chase that elusive carrot on a stick. It’s a desperate roll of the dice, a hail mary pass to a god who doesn’t give a damn. A toss of the dice, a spin of the roulette wheel. Who knows, maybe you’ll strike it lucky, snag a golden ticket out of this chrome nightmare. But more likely, the house always wins, and you’re left with nothing but the bitter aftertaste of defeat.

Financial Nihilism, a bitter pill to swallow, but swallow it you must. Welcome to the new American Dream: a dog-eat-dog world where survival is the only prize. Buckle up, chum, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride.

<>