To bruh, or not to bruh, that is the question:
Whether 'tis epicer in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous gay mods,
Or to take arms against a sea of twitch thots
And by opposing end them. To nutt—to game,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The no-scopes and the thousand K/D
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a Mic spam
Devoutly to be wish'd. To commit die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of commit die what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this Discord chat,
Must give us pause—"Itsall about the respect"
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of tryhards,
Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man-child's contumely,
The pangs of dispriz'd love, the tos's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To moan and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after uwu,
The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.