Here we are, 2025, another lap around the sun for this stinking, festering ball of mud we call home. The fireworks are still smoldering in the sky, the champagne’s gone flat, and the streets are littered with the corpses of resolutions already broken by you weak-willed, drooling idiots. Welcome to the future, same as the past, only shinier and more expensive.
I’m writing this from the roof of my tenement, the city sprawled out below me like a drunk hooker who’s forgotten her lines. The air’s thick with the stench of fireworks and regret—last night’s party’s all over like the dreams of every poor sod who thought this year would be different. Spoiler: it won’t. You’re still you, and that’s the worst news of all.
2024 was a garbage fire, wasn’t it? Wars, plagues, politicians grinning like they’ve got razor blades up their sleeves, and the feeds pumping out more lies than a televangelist’s prayer meeting. And now, here’s 2025, waltzing in with a smug grin and a promise of “hope.” Hope? I’ll give you hope—hope that the next ad you see doesn’t drill straight into your brainstem and sell you a subscription to your own misery.
The New Year’s Eve crowd was out in force last night, screaming and humping in the streets like animals who’ve just discovered fire and decided to fuck it. I saw a guy with a tattoo of “2025” on his chest puke into a gutter while his girlfriend filmed it for the socials. That’s your future right there: a looping gif of stupidity, monetized by some faceless corp that owns your eyeballs.
What’s on the horizon? More tech to make you dumber, more laws to keep you quiet, and more shiny distractions so you don’t notice the world’s still run by the same greasy lizards who’ve been screwing us since the dawn of time. The PM is probably already planning his next photo-op, grinning over a pile of dead promises, while the City churns out new flavours of lab-grown meat to keep you fat and compliant. Me, I’ve got my new full whisky bottle and a fresh pack of smokes—gonna need both to survive this year’s parade of bullshit.
Resolutions? Don’t bother. You’ll be back to guzzling zero-beer and jerking off to the latest AI porn by next Tuesday. Me, I resolve to keep kicking this rotting corpse of a society in the teeth until it spits out some truth—or at least until the bastards ban me from the socials again. Happy New Year, you degenerate freaks. Try not to choke on it.
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