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You will never be a real irishman. You have no mud pit, you have no staff, you have no celtic DNA. You are a angloid man twisted by drugs and surgery into a crude mockery of nature’s perfection.
All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back people mock you. Your parents are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your ghoulish appearance behind closed doors.
Irishmen are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed Irishmen to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even angloids who “pass” look uncanny and unnatural to a Irishman. Your bone structure is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk irishman home with you, he’ll turn tail and bolt the second he gets a whiff of your diseased, infected monarchy.
You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning 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.
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll buy a rope, tie a noose, put it around your neck, and plunge into the cold abyss. Your parents will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. They’ll bury you with a headstone marked with "anglo", and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know an angloid 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 angloid.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.