When I was a kid in school, I learned that anyone who gets bad grades is stupid.
A B could still be written off as carelessness—but it had to be fixed. Immediately. It couldn’t be left like that.
Not for behavior—because being marked down for behavior meant you were bad.
A C, though, got you punished. Otherwise the child would drift off. They’d amount to nothing.
Which, of course, shakes the very foundation of existence itself.
Because either you become someone. A real someone.
Or better not talk about you at all.
Naturally, the bar for being someone is set fucking high.
No title, no status—down the drain you go.
Straight into public humiliation.
This really became a problem in college—university.
Thank God they don’t grade behavior there—but they do grade your mental state.
Weak? Too bad. Try again next time.
Didn’t succeed?
Then quit. Immediately.
Don’t even try again.
It’s not for you.
Simple as that: you’re stupid, and you won’t make it.
Go on. Admit it to yourself.
Don’t whine—give up.
Slouch away and repeat it often:
I’m useless shit. An idiot.
That’s what I was born to be. I’ve just been lucky so far.
And how does quitting make things better?
By letting one question torture you for the rest of your life:
What if you’d stayed and fought instead?
What if it turned out you weren’t useless shit at all—you just needed a few words of encouragement?
Words like these, for instance:
Millions of people have graduated.
Failing a few times means nothing.
And everyone knows there are rotten teachers.
There’s no cure for them.
You just have to survive them.
With plain, stubborn will.
In adult, capital-L Life, the “good advice” comes differently.
Sugar-coated landmines wrapped in sweet words.
“You have to be born for this position.”
“They only hire from management’s inner circle.”
“You need many, many years of experience.”
“Want less, and you won’t be disappointed.”
“Success isn’t everything.”
“This isn’t a job—it’s a hobby.”
“Be more realistic.”
“These are just dreams.”
“You can’t make a living chasing your dreams.”
“Don’t you ever think about your child?”
Oh yes.
The child card.
The ultimate trump card.
A child is useful for so many things.
For example, stirring up guilt.
All it takes is a gentle hint:
You’re selfish.
Because anyone who thinks of themselves at all is selfish.
Anyone who is “too ambitious”—yes, that’s apparently a slur now—is selfish.
And therefore despicable, for not wanting what’s conveniently within reach, but something bigger.
Just look around—how many people there are with ideas above their station.
All those selfish inventors.
Scientists.
Singers, actors.
The countless artists who dared to chase their dreams.
Many of them despite crushing poverty.
Despite a complete absence of opportunity.
So how does that work, then?
They don’t need to be corrected? Scolded?
Was there some invisible line—this far and no further?
Have too many of the “overambitious” already clawed their way up, and now that’s it?
No more room for greatness?
What if there are still a few places left?
What if we don’t know how many—or for how long?
Do you still give up?
Or do you listen to that small inner voice,
the one that rarely dares to speak anymore,
but when it does, it begs in tears:
Don’t give up.
Ever.
Not ever.