(pre god) sbs @sbs0x

You could get DSA into RI, then RJC, then Harvard scholarship then get a high-earning corporate job. Jestermaxx out a mid SMU psychology girl that's 1/4 Peranakan but still looks Chinese enough for your mother's approval. Get married and accept she's going to gain 15kg of extra bodyweight after 3 kids. Put your salary and savings into crypto, NVDA and TSLA early and flip your bloodline from mid-tier Sinkie Chinese to New Money Sinkie. Get a nice GCB and hire a 7/10 Indo maid named Dewi that you occasionally sniff the scent off down the hallway but don't touch because you're a Good Christian Man. Send your kids to international school so they don't have a sinkie accent and are raised as part of the new elite and not the permanent grab driver underclass. Hate your wife for giving you a daughter first but you have two sons (one seems gay because you argued with her too many times while she was pregnant) so at least the bloodline is somewhat secured. You've been racist enough at the dinner table that he probably won't fall for a brown girl and will bring home one that's yellow or white. The marriage falls into a loop of presenting niceties to your church community and colleagues, but you sleep in separate bedrooms. Except when there's friends staying over, then the middle of the bed remains cold and frigid, your wife's body and yours left untouched with separate duvets. Your only heterosexual son chooses to leave Singapore for Australia after he couldn't get into a good university and you sent him to Perth and he fell in love with an Aussie libtard barista with purple dyed hair. Half her family are bogans that you met on a road trip to Margaret River where you spent 70% of it deeply intoxicated due to work stress while your son drove you from BnB to BnB. You don't understand his fascination with angmoh women but his gf dyed her hair back to brunette out of courtesy and you begin to have a normal relationship with your potential daughter-in-law. She even laughs at you saying she uses chopsticks well. Your biological daughter hates that you detested her for being female and changed pronouns after you sent her to New York for a liberal arts degree. She seeks to inherit your estate but you're not sure how that will work with the Mandate of Heaven. Your gay son moved to the YooKay and sends you text tirades of how much he detests your wealth but the only way he doesn't block you is giving him a stipend to pay off his overpriced Kensington flat each month. At least he never dated a Malay boy, you whisper, as you hear your wife blowing her nose from chronic hypothyroidism after the years of a loveless marriage. Thank God for separate bedrooms, you say. Your wealth generates enough interest to sustain several sugar babies. You read about Melvin Lim getting busted in his office and laugh at his terrible opsec. No one knows about the Vietnamese, Russian, and Thai mistresses, you think to yourself as you stare at the ceiling on your Tempurpedic that you got at a discount at King Koil. Your cute Indo maid that's a single mother, you've visited her daughter's kampung close to the Ring of Fire and even left her enough money to pay for her entire primary schooling. You've still never touched Dewi as a good Singaporean Man. But there's a bit of mould in your room even though it's worth millions. You'll call the contractor tomorrow. The lines on your forehead that weren't there when you first got your money seem to be getting deeper each day. You've got a longevity expert that says your vitals are fine yet your heart remains filled with a sense of emptiness. You age. Decades pass. Your gay son somehow discovered Ray Peat when he went to a sauna gathering in East London and reverted to heterosexuality. Turns out it was just the parasites and unfiltered tap water. He looksmaxxed and somehow seems to be a better inheritor of the estate than both the lesbian daughter and your first son. Your first son has been hit by the Norwood Reaper but at least his Eurasian kids are cute and get preferential treatment in Singapore. You suspect your Golden Rice Bowl might be ripped to shreds when you finally pass. Your ex-colleagues and business network look at your grandchildren with jealousy as they go home to their robot harems, devoid of human company. The new Scarlett Johansson model just came out, and the Chinese bootleg has self-cleaning genitals. They've released a new Neuralink update that simulates the peace and quiet of a GCB even if you're in 2-room HDB in Aljunied so you're kind of worried that the GCB might be worth nothing in several decades. But that's still in the future. You're 88 now and they're projecting life expectancy to be 200. You just might make it. But now your children start to clamour for your estate and their pound of flesh. The mistresses you have stay the same age, while you pay a specialist to smuggle Chinese peptides from Bangkok to Singapore. Your favorite Indo maid is now a grandmother. Her daughter became a single mother and took over the housecleaning in the GCB, while her mother does the cooking. She's older now but she's still the round-eyed, sweet-scented brown woman that looked at you with love, understanding and sadness after the hundredth argument with your wife about money and happiness. You treat Dewi's daughter better than your angmoh daughter in law and your wrinkled, longsuffering wife wonders why CNY reunion dinners are always so quiet even with wagyu sashimi, caviar kueh pie tee and abalone yusheng on the dinner table. At least the grandchildren still talk to you. It's 2100. You've outlived your wife. The funeral is ornate, elaborate, and you shed a single tear watching the pearl white robots wheel her casket into Mandai crematorium. It's time, you say. Time to have the life I always wanted beyond all this, you quietly whisper as you hear your grandchildren crying. You pay for a jailbroken Claude Opus hybrid agent that's connected to a nanorobot quantum mechasuit to quietly bequeth most of your wealth to your lesbian daughter as she was the one that proved her business acumen. Artificial wombs became mainstream, so all your children did secure the bloodline with your bags of fiat. But you realize your sons could never live up to your shadow, and thus - you choose to leave them in the darkness of their human fragility. But you've secretly slipped Dewi life extension pills for all these years. Her telomeres remain long, her vitals still youthful. On a quiet night before Christmas, you write a letter to your daughter detailing the steps to protect the Rice Bowl. For your sons, you leave them both 30 pieces of silver each. For your grandkids, their future is safe. It's time to go. Dewi steps into the robot mechasuit with you as it transforms into a nuclear powered submarine. Nanorobots. The power of a thousand suns is finally in the palm of your hand. Off the coast of Pulau Ubin, the both of you descend into the ocean's depths, in search of worlds unknown. Free at last, you say. Free at last. You could do this all. But you will not.

Tsar Apu II Apustayevich @tsarlet2

3 months ago

You could get a Ph.D in physics and then get a job at Jane Street. Yoink a lowbie egirl on Twitter and sperg out about your niche hobbies together. Get married and start your own trading firm. Afford this penthouse in Manhattan. Send your kids to private school. But you will not.