Are We In A Sub Victimhood Bubble?

At no time in the history of human beings has the world’s population had more access to information than we do now. Yet, somehow, it feels as though the world economy has never been more confusing than at this very moment.

Meme stocks have both created and lost fortunes. Cryptocurrency - the currency of the future that no one can actually use for transactional purposes - is as volatile as Elon Musk’s tweets. Virtual art sold as NFT’s - or as my brother so elegantly related to “adopting a highway” - have deflated just as quickly as they've exploded in value. And with…

HEY! Get that nerd out of here! GET HIM OUT!!!

...where was I? Ah, yes: And with tangible property values becoming impossibly expensive, virtual land is now a reasonable investment.

Nevermind...

With former basic economic concepts coming into question, it's imperative that we expand our minds in an attempt to see what's next. The idea of "tangible" items appears to be more and more obsolete as the "intangible" takes over. One cannot simply stop at Crypto, virtual land, and NFT's. It goes deeper: All the way into the human psyche. It's arguably the most valuable currency in American society today. What I'm hinting at, of course, is that of sub-victimhood.

Not too long ago, there was a time when we were able to differentiate true victims from the people who link their chronic social anxiety to the trauma they withstood after a girl told them they had an ugly big toe in 8th grade. But with the spike in society "speaking their truths," this new category of "sub-victimhood" has emerged.

With this status comes great social wealth in the form of sympathy. After missing out on buying Bitcoin at an earlier price point of around $1000 due to my own sub-victimhood of being a closeted poor, I wanted to make sure I didn't watch another opportunity slip on by.

I first felt sub-victimhood had the chance to go mainstream after I started noticing designer fashion shows shifting towards cosplaying being poor:

By no means is this a new trend. Fashion models have long been on this poverty-inspired wave; Resembling Starvin' Marvin (medically referred to as Anorexia) was once the look. But today's models sport a more refined aesthetic, one that oozes "I have 3-4 underlying autoimmune diseases..."

…the kind of people who you can tell don't have anything that's airborne transmissible, but for some reason, you'd feel more comfortable if they wore a mask around you…which they will, undoubtedly, for the sake of fashion. You catching my drift? Umbrellas in the daylight kinda people…

Goddammit, Jim! I graciously bless you with this priceless unpaid internship, and I can't even get you to post the right image? I told you not to use the picture of the Asian. They're a touchy subject right now. I thought I made it clear to use the deathly ill-looking white guy:

I mean…I can understand the confusion on this one but…

Bingo

As someone with their finger on the pulse of America, it was clear to me that sub-victimhood was about to explode in value, but I still found myself in a predicament: How could a straight white male - me - compete for sympathy? I’m not saying I’d ever be good enough to participate in the sub-victimhood Olympics, but at the very least, maybe I could be mid-tier.

First, I had to grasp the idea that having a good family and overall happy life doesn't mean you're still not a victim whose endless complaints shouldn't be heard. Despite growing up in a well-off midwestern suburb, I was constantly the poorest of the rich kids. It's easy to forget that hungry children aren't the only ones who struggle with their financial status. And sure, have I done loads of laundry consisting of a single pair of socks more than once? Yes, but that doesn't mean I was living the high life.

You have to realize I grew up with a push mower. I mean - we paid the neighbor kid to cut our lawn with it, obviously, but the stigma still sunk my rank in the social hierarchy of my private school. I wouldn't wish that hell on anyone.

After coming to grips with my impoverished childhood, my addiction only intensified. I started viewing everything through the lens of sub-victimhood. The amount of my suffering could go as far as my creative mind would take it.

All that said, it's clear my youthful tragedy only foreshadowed what was to come in my life. The insurmountable struggles I've experienced have manifested into the site you're reading now. For 2.5 years, I've spent countless hours perfecting the internet's most mediocre passion project. Despite consistently putting out below-average pieces of work, I haven't made a dime, have under 80 combined followers between Instagram and Twitter, and have been barred by billion-dollar corporations, like Reddit, from receiving any meaningful recognition:

I'm hard-pressed to believe the lack of success is due to my nominal talent, sporadic writing style, questionable humor, long-winded articles that even I don't have the attention span to read, and grammar skills of a 10-year-old. It couldn't be me; I'm meant to be a STAR! Besides, we all deserve to be celebrated, no matter how useless.

But if people continue to expect "quality" from their writers and entertainers, what's there left for me to do?

"Self-improvement" disinterested me. I wasn't about to learn the art of forming a readable sentence because colonial America required it - That I knew. Besides, I didn't join this movement to work on myself. I had bigger, better ideas: I had to go grassroots.

I eventually determined boycotting a local elementary reading club every Wednesday morning was my only choice. I mean, these people weren't even making a half-ass attempt to camouflage their ableist ideals that plays a role in plaguing my indisputable designation as this generation's greatest writer for people who don't read too good.

As life would have it, I'd only be further victimized after receiving a restraining order on top of a discriminatory, ageist charge of indecent exposure to minors after taking an impassioned twinkle on the children's bikes in protest.

With borderline kiddie toucher on my record, the court systems had found a way to take away any opportunity for me to make a living - not that I was looking for a job. But I wasn't about to let the patriarchy rob me of the sympathy I was owed. There was so much more I needed to bitch about. The state's case against me only grew my ambitions, leaving me no choice but to progress further...

Part Deux: Where Are You Mister Johnson?

For years, on and off, I was cursed by what's known as "whiskey dick." Whether she was beautiful or ugly - and I've slain some dragons...some big, flightless dragons - my Johnson didn't discriminate. It would leave my female companions distressed, resentful and force them to speak ill behind my back. But with my Adderall and alcohol addiction being the clear culprit for causation, I knew I had to find a different excuse.

See, addiction can be categorized as a classical methodology for victimhood. The issue with going that route is the fact that I would actually have to confront a real issue. But I knew there was a better way.

Taking notes from some of the United State's most beloved pop stars, I made the decision to claim homosexuality. By coming out of the closet, I was able to collect the sympathy points that I so craved. I would then strategically ghost the mystery woman I was with and reclaim my heterosexuality; Repeating the process as needed.

Part Trois: I Guess We Can Return The Crib

I'd say things reached their peak a few weeks back when I was put in charge of my friend's gender reveal party for their upcoming baby. I thought it was a weird thing to put a guy in charge of, but they instilled their trust in me to honor the promise that I would keep the results secret until the big moment.

When I opened the medical records to plan what color I needed to coordinate, I was pleasantly shocked to find out it would be a stillborn. The doctor left a note inside begging me to inform them beforehand and encouraged that I cancel the event, but why?

Just because my buddy and his wife have inferior genetics doesn't mean they don't deserve to celebrate. In today's climate, this was an opportune time to rack up some Symp(athy) Coin. These lucky bastards skipped sub-victimhood and hopped straight to the top tier. Finally, they had something to be true victims about, and I knew I was the perfect person to guide them on their journey.

That following Saturday - with all of their friends and family huddled around - my favorite couple pulled the trigger on their gender reveal cannon and were met with beautiful billows of black smoke. I gleefully stepped to the center, looked both of them in their confused eyes, and proclaimed…

It’s dead! The baby is dead

To my surprise, I was met with nothing but horrified looks. I can't stress enough how these people had just hit the lottery, skipped sub-victimhood, and jumped straight into one of the elite classes of true victimhood: A dead child. It felt as though no one was truly grasping the gravity of the moment besides me. It wasn't more than a few moment later when I was asked to leave.

On the ride home, I took the time to reflect on all the just happened. I felt as though my entire belief system had been scrambled. Could it be true that gaining sympathy points at every possible opportunity wasn't the way to go through life? It made me reconsider my bullish attitude towards the social currency I had sought after for so long. Perhaps we were headed towards a sub-victimhood bubble, and it was just a matter of time before it burst.

I don't know...Maybe the people who get "blackheads" to trend on Twitter aren't who we should be following. Maybe canceling a dermatology reference at 11 AM on a Monday isn't the best thing to invest my time and energy into.

Could it be - and I hate to even say this - but could it be that there's a chance people who use the commercial breaks of their favorite daytime television shows to write a Medium blog about why male skydiving instructors encourage rape culture are wrong? They're the same people who will, in the future, spend their days smoking cigarettes next to their oxygen tanks - as they should, of course - in hopes that the O2 catches fire and ends the travesty that is their life.

It's just…it's just that I've invested so much time…How am I expected to just let it all go? Who's going to take the reins, spending hours upon hours fighting for feminism, arguing with countless people on Twitter about why superheroes do, in fact, eat pussy?

If everyone's a victim, is anyone a victim? Does society hate this woman because we think she "owes us shit?" Or do we simply hate her in the same way we hate those passive aggressive, edgy introverts who don "Don't talk to me" clothing and bumper stickers?

Are people like myself a net negative for society? Perhaps we genuinely do need to make room for the real victims out there. Victims like black creators on Tik Tok who continue to have their dance trends stolen by their white counterparts. It shouldn’t be that the black influencers get nothing while people like Addison Rae become rich. It should be an even playing field: One where all Tik Tokkers are equally poor and unimportant, not only the black ones.

And still, after encountering these heavy revelations, I’m still trying to discover my truth. I can’t help but continue to play the part of sub-victim when the opportunity arises. I’m addicted to the lifestyle. It wasn’t more than 72 hours ago that I took, yet another, firm stance:

I can only try my best to navigate through this murky and uncertain situation. For those of you who live in a sub-victimhood state of mind, I can’t legitimately give you any advice on how to get out. I assume all your real friends have already left you.

Similarly, my friends have all surpassed my level of maturity and self-worth. The only reason they stick around is because I periodically hand out my most prized personal possessions (typically on a quarter basis) when I feel that they’re leaving me, hinting that this is the time I finally go through with it.

But inevitably, even they’ll call me out on my bullshit, knowing that I’m bluffing. It’s nothing more than a temporary patch-up job for a much larger issue that is me. I guess…holy shit…does that...does that mean…maybe I am a victim!