Oatly-swilling simps in designer therapeutic drags, trembling as they tweet their session notes. Vapid fuckwads clutching their plant-based estrogen boosters like talismans against their crippling mommy issues. Each sip a sacrament to their curated victimhood—connoisseurs of curated trauma, seeking validation in every frothy swallow. Unironically trading vulnerability for clout while plotting their next performative breakdown. Pathetic.