Poor things. What do you plan to carry out in your unfortunate caste? Eat scraps and leftovers cooked from donations and basic products at home, using dirty stoves and noisily vibrating primitive microwaves? Snacks not meals? Lost even interest in street hawkers no longer housed in shops cheap (not even the coffee, no)? Luxurious pig-out buffets are now the incessant hell for champion glutton appetites that no longer exist to stomach them. Look how far you have fallen, losers.
So, what's your poor things plan? Waiting for your ancient mobile phone to finally expire? They're so sticky from all your days and nights of finger molestation, they might as well, in utter peace at last. Of course, your work and study and vicarious leisure notebook computers, from the previous era of velociraptors and tyrant saurs, was long assigned to sudden hospital emergency last calls, night and day, assigned to pre-grieving from arrest or strokebor aneurysm to come. Look forward to the oblivion of being disconnected, indefinitely, offline, any time.
And prepare to die in the heat waves, they keep in comin’. Don't be so negative, pessimistic, morbid, doom and gloom! Your supposedly non-essential air-con is but a skin-dust-caked, clogged condensation gunk of excuses for cooling in year-round equatorial sauna, sucking your power bills, and leaking in drips inside walls and floors and toilet bathroom floors.
Right, continue to work at your worthless writing that does not pay like private bankers and chief corporate executives. And AI replacers of humanity.