My mother is the galaxy’s favorite cliffhanger and my step-dads are a god and a wolf; please respect my privacy while I overthrow your syllabus. If destiny wants me, it can DM me like everyone else.

Everyone keeps asking if I’m “proud” of the Accord, as if pride is a coupon you hand to the future for 10% off consequences. I’m proud of my mom’s spine, my dad’s soup, and my playlist that could end wars if people had taste. The Accord? Jury’s out. I toured Orientation for a school project—don’t @ me—and the pop-up smelled like disinfected ambition. They tested “spiritual neutrality” like it’s a math problem; my results were “Chaotic Good with extra side-eye.”

A recruiter tried the stipend pitch. I smiled, because I was raised correctly, then asked if the upgrade deletes my sarcasm or just rate-limits it. He laughed too slowly. That’s how I knew. Power laughs late when it’s busy calculating.

Here’s what scares me: not ascension—the world is bigger than Earth and I want to see everything—but the way adults stop hearing themselves the second a microphone claps. I watched Mehen glow like an answer key and Lion lurk like an essay question; the crowd loved the certainty and ignored the curiosity. Mom? She stood there like a storm pretending to be a forecast. That’s my real religion: women who refuse to shape-shift into palatable.

School told us the Prophecy of the Shars is inevitable. Fun fact: inevitability hates journals. I keep receipts. If the tribunal goes left, I will be the kid live-threading the exact moment the narrative blinks. If it goes right, I’ll still be posting because transparency isn’t optional—it's table manners.

PSA to my generation: get strong lungs and keep your weird laugh; demand both. Read every clause. Tattoo your boundaries in invisible ink that glows under lies. And if an AI cat purrs when you pass “emotional balance,” pet the cat, pass the test, then ask for the kill-switch to your contract. If they won’t give it, you just learned the real lesson.