SARCASM FROM THE WORLD.
So this is how Michael dies. Not heroically, not tragically, not even memorably—just sprawled across the road like a forgotten object, staring at the sky and wondering when exactly life decided he was optional.
There's no dramatic music, no final wisdom, no emotional closure—just the cold realization that Michael managed to survive terrorism, abandonment, emotional damage, and existential nonsense, only to lose against traffic. Honestly, very efficient. If the universe had a sense of humor—and it clearly does—this would be the punchline.
Michael was born into happiness, which in retrospect should have been immediately suspicious. His parents were joyful, smiling, throwing a party to celebrate his birth like he was some kind of miracle, and the universe reacted with extreme prejudice. Terrorist attack. Everyone died. Michael lived. And right there, fate made it very clear: survival was not a reward; it was a long-term sentence.
With no one left to claim him, Michael was sent to an orphanage run by nuns, because nothing balances tragedy quite like religious irony. The place was quiet, overly clean, and filled with prayers that echoed endlessly without ever getting answers. God was always nearby in theory but never available in practice, like customer support that keeps promising a callback. Michael grew up there watching other children get adopted one by one, each goodbye peeling away a little more hope, until he realized he wasn't waiting for his turn—he simply wasn't on the list. He became a permanent resident, a lifetime member of the "maybe later" club, surviving on routine, discipline, and the growing understanding that expectations only existed to disappoint him.
At eight years old, Michael made his first catastrophic mistake: he felt something. He developed a childish, innocent crush on Sister Fiona, not because he understood love, but because she was kind and listened to him. Fiona cared for him like a younger brother, which was appropriate, healthy, and unfortunately irrelevant. Enter Father Alfredo, who apparently unlocked the premium romance storyline. Confession. Mutual feelings. Marriage. Then a baby. Henry. Henry wasn't just a child; Henry was proof. Proof that happiness was real, achievable, and aggressively unavailable to Michael. Every time Michael saw Henry, it felt like the universe was holding up a success story and saying, "See? We can do it. Just not for you." Something inside Michael didn't break—it quietly curdled and decided to wait.
Years passed, because time always does, and Michael grew up carrying emotional baggage like carry-on luggage he was never allowed to put down. At eighteen, Michael got a girlfriend named Kerry.
She was sweet, caring, supportive, and suspiciously perfect, like a character introduced too early in a story. They studied together, sang karaoke, shared meals with her parents, stayed over in the most innocent way possible, and for a brief, dangerous moment, Michael thought life had finally stopped punching him.
Then reality remembered its job. Michael discovered Kerry was dating four other guys at the same time. Not serially. Simultaneously. Actively. With enthusiasm. When confronted, Kerry's father explained it calmly, proudly, and with alarming confidence. In ancient times, men had multiple partners, so why shouldn't a modern woman optimize her emotional resources? According to him, Kerry wasn't immoral—she was diversified. Four boyfriends meant stability, shared attention, reduced emotional dependency, and no risk of financial exploitation. Michael wasn't betrayed; he was outperformed. He wasn't a boyfriend; he was an asset in a carefully managed emotional portfolio.
That was the moment Michael realized the world wasn't broken—it was functioning perfectly, just not in his favor. His brain tried to process loyalty, logic, and the fact that he had accidentally wandered into an alternate moral economy. While his thoughts were buffering and his faith in reality was loading an error message, Michael stepped onto the road without looking left or right. The car didn't hesitate. Destiny didn't stall. The universe finally clicked "end process."
Now Michael lay there, broken, fading, but still conscious enough to be annoyed, which felt extremely on-brand. And in that moment, clarity arrived—not wisdom, just honesty. Michael didn't see his life flash before his eyes; he saw the highlights reel of disappointment. And so Michael made a promise, not to be better, but to be worse. If he ever got a second life, Michael decided, he would not be good. He would not be patient, kind, inspirational, or morally impressive. He was done being character development. In his next life, Michael would live without restraint. He would chase pleasure recklessly, pursue desires aggressively, and treat consequences like future paperwork. He would eat what he wanted, drink what he wanted, want what he wanted, and never apologize for it. He would ignore social expectations the way people ignore software updates—deliberately and with confidence.
Michael wouldn't aim to be cruel or heroic. Both required effort. Instead, he would be inconvenient. A problem. A walking reminder that giving second chances to emotionally damaged people was a terrible idea. He wouldn't destroy the world—that was too dramatic. He would simply enjoy it irresponsibly. He would say yes to bad ideas, double down on worse ones, and collect questionable decisions like trophies. Rules would become suggestions. Morals would become optional settings. If something felt like a terrible idea, Michael would consider it briefly and then proceed with enthusiasm.
Michael wouldn't seek love; he'd treat affection like a resource. He wouldn't chase purpose; he'd chase stimulation. He wouldn't explain himself or seek approval. He'd be loud, unapologetic, and painfully honest. He'd be the reason warnings existed, the example people used in lectures, the anecdote parents referenced when telling their kids what not to do. He wouldn't be evil—just profoundly irresponsible. And if some higher power was listening, Michael had one final, extremely clear thought: after everything, if they gave him a second life, they deserved whatever he became. They had one lifetime to make him decent. Now they would get entertaining.