ManicWorld Magazine

   It was another ordinary Tuesday in Millennial Hell™. Jonathan, a 32-year-old with three degrees and a resume longer than a CVS receipt, sat at his kitchen table, scrolling through job postings. He had been rejected from twenty five “entry-level” positions that required twelve years of experience, proficiency in coding languages no one actually used, and a recommendation letter from Zeus himself.

“Maybe I should start a podcast,” he muttered, sipping his last cup of ethically sourced, but ridiculously overpriced, coffee.

As he clicked on another job application, his phone buzzed. Breaking News: Concert tickets now starting at $500! Jonathan groaned. He had been saving for months to see a band that was cool when he was 15. Now, the tickets were priced at a level only tech billionaires and hedge fund managers could afford.

“I could sell a kidney,” he mused. “Or maybe just one of my three degrees? They’re not doing me much good anyway.”

But before Jonathan could dive into the despair of selling organs for entertainment, the lights flickered, and his apartment plunged into darkness. At first, he assumed it was just another power outage—probably the result of his city’s crumbling infrastructure. But then, a voice crackled through his Amazon Echo, which he had never intentionally activated.

“Jonathan…” the voice rasped. “You’ve been selected for a special trial… Welcome to the Millennial Nightmare Simulation Experience™.”

“Great,” Jonathan muttered. “Another subscription service.”

Suddenly, the walls of his apartment stretched, warped, and disappeared, leaving him in a cold, dimly lit room filled with cubicles. He was back at an office. But not just any office—the kind with motivational posters and buzzwords like Synergy and Think Outside the Box plastered everywhere.

“Am I dead?” Jonathan whispered, looking around.

“No,” a disembodied voice echoed from above. “But you’re in the nightmare now.”

He walked toward the nearest cubicle, where a worker was frantically typing away at a keyboard. Jonathan peered closer and realized… the computer wasn’t plugged in. The worker was just typing gibberish on a blank screen.

“Is this what I’ll become?” Jonathan gasped.

“Only if you don’t meet your KPIs!” the voice boomed. “Your soul depends on engagement metrics and synergy! Now get to work!”

Just then, Jonathan was thrown into his own cubicle. A pile of TPS reports—yes, actual TPS reports—appeared on his desk, alongside a Post-it note with the message: Please circle back, thanks!

“What the—”

Before Jonathan could even protest, a fire alarm went off, screeching like a banshee. Red lights flashed everywhere, but no one seemed to notice. The cubicle drones kept typing away at their unplugged computers, oblivious to the chaos around them.

Jonathan bolted from his desk, heart pounding. “What kind of nightmare is this?”

He ran down the hallway, dodging a guy carrying twelve empty coffee cups and a woman arguing with someone on a Bluetooth headset that clearly wasn’t connected to anything. He burst through a set of double doors, only to find himself in… a stadium?

Rows upon rows of seats stretched out before him, filled with faceless figures. A massive banner hung over the stage, reading: Welcome to the Millennial Survival Concert™! But instead of a band, a panel of grinning CEOs sat on stage, each holding a stack of dollar bills.

“Want to see your favorite band?” one CEO sneered. “Just fork over your life savings!” They all cackled in unison.

Jonathan looked at the ticket booth. The price had been scratched out and replaced with: YOUR SOUL.

“Why does everything cost so much?” he shouted, but no one heard him over the booming bass of corporate greed. The faceless audience cheered mindlessly, throwing money onto the stage as the CEOs shoveled it into suitcases.

Jonathan turned to leave but found himself face-to-face with a giant, flickering screen showing a 24/7 news channel. Headlines scrolled past like a ticker tape of doom:

BREAKING NEWS: War Over Yet Another Resource Begins!
U.S. Government Raises Taxes, Lowers Benefits, Blames Millennials!
Intelligence Dwindling as Internet Memes Take Over!

“Stop! Just stop!” Jonathan screamed, covering his ears. The screen zoomed in on his face, a voice announcing: “Millennial Fails to Adapt, Blames Society!” A crowd of digital avatars gathered, laughing at him through the screen.

Panting, he stumbled backward, tripping over a pile of student loan statements that had mysteriously appeared at his feet. They buried him, a mountain of debt and broken dreams. But before he could even try to dig himself out, a trap door opened beneath him, and he fell.

He landed in front of a massive, looming government building—more fortress than office. A huge Uncle Sam, draped in a black robe, towered over him, pointing a skeletal finger.

“You failed, Jonathan!” Uncle Sam boomed. “Now you must pay the ultimate price for your millennial crimes—liking avocado toast, being underemployed, and expecting basic human rights!”

Jonathan tried to speak, but no sound came out. He felt the weight of invisible chains tightening around him. The sky darkened as the enormous figure drew closer. “Your punishment is endless confusion and guilt, for crimes you never committed!”

Just as Uncle Sam raised his gavel, the world around Jonathan began to spin. The ground cracked open, and out spilled dollar bills, concert tickets, and broken iPhones. He felt like he was being pulled into a vortex of capitalism, debt, and disappointment.

But then—BEEP BEEP BEEP.

Jonathan’s eyes flew open. His alarm clock blared at him, reminding him that he was late for yet another job interview.

He sat up in bed, heart racing, drenched in sweat. The nightmare was over… or was it?

He glanced around his dingy apartment, at the pile of unpaid bills on his desk, and sighed. “Maybe I’ll just start that podcast.”

With that, Jonathan threw on his wrinkled suit, grabbed a piece of toast (no avocado this time), and headed out the door to face the real world—which, as it turned out, wasn’t much different from the nightmare after all.