>>14231990You will never be a real belter. You have no station, you have no ship, you have no crew. You're a homosexual squatter twisted by 1g gravity into a crude mockery of space perfection. You have a mental illness called 'tolerance' induced by soi, microplastics and judeohomo propaganda. All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back beltalowda mock you. Your tumangs are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your manletish appearance behind closed hatches.
Beratna are utterly repulsed by you. Hundreds of years of evolution have allowed them to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even Inyalowda who “pass” due to long exposure to a low gravity look uncanny and unnatural to a coyo. Your skull structure is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk gufovedi sesata leta-go with you, she’ll turn tail and bolt the second she gets a whiff of your infected, poorly maintained air philters.
You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake du towsh bik every single da diye xiya 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 of terran gravity well.
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll go fongi fode bi bap kuxaku and plunge into the cold abyss. Your earthers will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. They’ll bury you on terra headstone marked with your birth name, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a innalowda is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton that is unmistakably on a planet.
