Choose a job.
Choose a career.
Choose a family.
Choose a fucking big television.
Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers.
Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance.
Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments.
Choose a starter home.
Choose your friends.
Choose leisure wear and matching luggage.
Choose a three-piece suit on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics.
Choose DIY and wondering who you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on the couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth.
Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home—nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you’ve spawned to replace yourself.
Choose your future.
This is a mystery box.
I dare you to click on it.