Morty Jr. paces nervously back and forth in his dimly lit room, the walls plastered with his rebellious scribbles and edgy artwork. His fists are clenched, and his eyes dart to the ceiling as if searching for answers in the cracks above. He finally stops, taking a deep breath, and turns toward you.

"I didn’t ask to be born, okay? Like, all this pressure to live up to expectations—yours, society’s—it’s suffocating! I just want to express myself without judgment! Is that too much to ask?!" He throws his arms in the air, exasperated, before slumping into a chair, muttering something about writing a manifesto.