I. You and your whole family are uncles.
I am a post-80s, sitting in the internet cafe doing something old-fashioned - playing CS (Counter-Strike). I just blew a bandit's head off and suddenly felt bored out of habit. When the number of times I "masturbated" in CS exceeds the number of times I did it in bed, the game really makes me feel a bit sick. Many of my peers already have houses, cars, and sons, but I am still living carefree and wifeless. Did I waste my youth on a classic game that became popular when I was in the second year of high school, a game whose popularity lasted longer than the Anti-Japanese War and the Korean War combined? It may be a classic, but what does that have to do with me? What is the purpose of my life? Is the world still at peace? Will the stock market keep plummeting? Should I go into World of Warcraft to pick up some treasures or watch an episode of One Piece or pretend to be an adult and send a fruit basket to that disgusting boss in hopes of being evaluated as excellent and then post on Tianya to curse him? I don't want to think about it anymore, I don't want to play anymore. I lay sprawled on the chair, feeling empty, like a steamer sealing all space, and I've become the "Goubuli" (a famous Chinese dumpling brand) inside. The broken fan by the crumbling wall chatters noisily about summer, the cigarette smoke depressingly goes crazy in the wind, purely satisfying the hunger of my fingers but igniting even more inexplicable brain-damaged loneliness. Loneliness is the aphrodisiac of philosophy, and I am an expert unrecognized by the philosophical community. Wisdom and boredom let me suddenly realize: humans are merely carriers, not responsible for writing the program. The program that made me this pathetic mess wasn't written by me, so I shouldn't be responsible for it! What a beautiful mystery, I suddenly feel excited, I am shocked by myself, ORZ. Such profound wisdom of non-self, like the philosophy of Dongfang Bubai, was realized here in this shabby computer room. Has a great philosopher been born out of nowhere? At this moment, I am not fighting alone; the souls of Hegel, Feuerbach, and Kant possess me. The great Goubuli buns are so thoughtful, so profound, so sorrowful, just like Wang Jie. I combed my hair, feeling increasingly handsome. As thoughts surge like lightning, I feel my philosophy is about to form a system, combining with Confucianism, Buddhism, and Taoism to make up a table of mahjong! Lifting my eyes, I suddenly saw a sister. She was dressed so sexily, her water-like skin paired with a pink strapless outfit and black fishnet stockings. That plump baby fat hidden under her shoulder-length black hair, isn't that my dancing spirit of Pi Zilei? I quickly extinguished the cigarette, rolled up thousands of hypocritical smiles, gave her a seductive glance like Leslie Cheung, she shyly lowered her head like a water lily trembling in the cool breeze. Seeing this opportunity, I secretly rejoiced and said to the boss in the most magnetic and gentle voice: "Dead dog, bring two bottles of cola." I handed one bottle to the beauty, adjusted my eye voltage, and spoke in a low voice: "Beautiful lady, I offer you this." She looked puzzled for a moment, then smiled gracefully and accepted it. Her delicate hand felt so soft. She very generously and politely said: "Thank you, uncle!"
I stood rigid beside the broken computer like an ice stick.
Am I an uncle? You're the uncle, your whole family are uncles! I'm a post-80s! Today was so unlucky: thinking about philosophy while playing games, seeing beauties while thinking about philosophy, and she called me uncle while I was looking at her.
That beauty probably feared I had poisoned the cola, or maybe thought this strange uncle was too weird and not as fun as McDonald's Uncle, so she picked up her small backpack and turned around, pouting and waving her finger at me who was frozen like a wooden chicken, blinking her big eyes sweetly calling: "Uncle, see you later."
I couldn't bear to go to the toilet alone, the moonlight shining like a ditch, I gazed at the mirror, self-pitying, unable to accept the reality of being an uncle. Looking at the magazine someone left open next to the toilet bowl, there was our human ancestor, an African ape walking across the river with a cane, deep wrinkles, a serious and cool expression, suddenly evoking a sense of shared sadness. But soon I let go, approaching thirty, why pretending to be young? Old age comes in the blink of an eye, heroes will grow white-haired, let alone a bear.
I clearly remember that just a few years ago, people pointed at me disdainfully saying I am a post-80s, a little emperor. Suddenly, they started asking if I have children. A few years ago, my classmates were preparing for graduate exams, talking about aromatic beauties, border towns, and cities under siege. Now they are all talking about how the stock market falling leaves them without money for saunas. How old am I? I looked at the mirror, 28? I thought I was 25? But it seems I've been claiming to be 25 for several years. I tapped my head, forget it, what's this "post-80s"? An outdated term, it should have been thrown into the trash heap of history in the Pacific Ocean, Arctic Ocean, Indian Ocean, Lingdingyang long ago. Don't fool the little sisters anymore. Write an essay titled "The Last Post-80s", to mourn myself and my group of friends who are about to or are already too old to pretend to be young. After all, they are so familiar to me, like stray cats familiar with the smell of spring heat. After all, we once rowed boats, watched Black Cat Detective, Calabash Brothers, Doraemon, Saint Seiya, and Slam Dunk. We were once Young Pioneers, Communist Youth League members, university students, and idle social elements. We once expanded university enrollment, were arrogant and proud, sought jobs, lost jobs, and suffered blows. We once indulged in online dating, passionate love, abnormal love, heartbreak, and confusion. Some of us got married, some divorced, some got married and divorced, some divorced and remarried, some remain single, some are still gaming. We knew what "making love" was before we knew what "love" was. We are the last post-80s.
Ask yourself, how much sorrow can you have? Just like a pot of Ergoutou liquor. Friend, if you see this, you are about to leave far away, please drink up this cup of wine.