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They know what they're doing, and they're not proud of it. How could they be, how could anyone be?
Sure, it all started with following the SLAYER positive advice you hear on the internet. Do what you love! Follow your dreams! And quitting their jobs to go on the road selling stuff they were interested in was awesome. For a few months. Until the money dried up. Sadly, doing what you love doesn't quite pay the bills when you love obscure nerdy fandom paraphernalia, even if you take it on the road to fellow nerds at cons, you aren't bringing in enough to support yourselves.
So you go back on your roots, you broaden your horizons and in addition to your lovingly handpicked selection of nerdy treasures, you add some stuff that'll sell, a few meme T-shirts maybe, some more mainstream merchandise from other franchises you enjoy but would cringe to be called a fan of, some silly joke stuff with the logo of the website of the month. And that works, for a while, you can pay the bills, pay down your credit card debt, finally have some money to spend on yourselves. Things seem like they're turning around. But now that there's money, there's something to fight over. You were ok splitting the money and the bills when you were broke, but now she's taking just as much as you when you're busting your ass twice as hard and she still expects you to pay for dinner. You start to fight, at first over bullshit but it soon becomes clear where the tension is, you start spending more time apart, spending more on yourselves. At some point you gave up on being exclusive to each other and by now you're not even a couple, just business partners who travel together and work the same booth, you still work great as a business team but the occasional cold, biting comment about each other's promiscuity is all that remains of your once fiery romance.
And now that you get used to the con circuit, it stops being as fun. You're no longer amazed by the cool effects at the cons when you've seen them a dozen times in the last month and are on a first name basis with the guy who made them - it's a short bald guy named Francis, chill dude, a bit greasy but nice enough. The cons themselves, once your paradise, your escape, your cherished refuge from reality, have now become the everyday scenery of your reality, more associated with another long workday than with exploring your passion. So you need more, you start to seek it at nights, after the cons as you travel the country. Once your relationship fell apart you started with the women, and you're a good looking enough guy but you don't get women as a stranger from out of town every week for free. You don't really have a problem with the girls, you've never been a sex addict or anything you really just need something to get her out of your mind after staring at her all day, or at what she's become. Despite, or perhaps because of this, you start looking for something more. You still keep it together, you have to deal with nerds all day but you start partying with coke on weekends and in big cities, and of course it's just a matter of a few months before that turns into every night, and then every day.
You still see each other every day, you travel together, at this point usually in silence, there's not much you have left to say to each other. Who knows what she gets up to at nights at this point, it hurts you to even think about it, it's been ages since you shared a room or saw her after hours... But as you discuss your business plan for your next con circuit, one thing is clear. The money you're making, once plenty, is no longer enough. You need to pay for your coke and your girls and your blossoming alcoholism, she needs to fund whatever she's up to. And at this point, neither of you really cares about your original passion any more. You stopped caring about cons a while ago, at this point you wouldn't spend your free time on anything nerdy (except the occasional anime binge), it still beats working an actual job but good lord, you're sick to death of these disgusting, smelly, greasy, sweaty, socially awkward weirdos you have to deal with all the time, you hate them, on a not-so-deep level. So you figure out how to take as much of their money as possible, with as little thought or original content as you can get away with. You sell memes, not clever or elegant memes, just the same simple unfunny overshared bullshit ones poorly printed out onto mugs and T-shirts. You don't even get the details right, some of the prints are crooked, your T-shirts have fucking jpeg artifacts on them. But who gives a shit. You're selling their own fat asses back to them, profiting off the product of their own unfunny repetitive humor.
Every now and then, when a particularly oblivious nerd makes a reference to one of your memes and expects an enthusiastic response as though you're members of some secret club sharing a gut-busting inside joke, it's hard for you to choke back your hatred and contempt. Part of you cringes internally whenever a neckbeard or fat cosplayer actually laughs at one of your stupid fucking meme products. I mean it's pepe frog on a fucking coffee mug, what kind of drooling retard finds that amusing let alone worth exclaiming to their clammy friends. But hey, you can't go back to the office, at this point, you're too far gone. And the money is good, you picked up bulk coffee mugs for £2 a pop and printed some meme images off the internet for basically free, you can sell 2 dozen on a bad day and the T-shirts are like printing money. You can do all the coke you need, and your mate can find you any girl you like around here, not the classiest but serviceable. Maybe you'll do a fat line off an Indian slag's tits later. If your bum partner can distract this hambeast before you have to deal with her autistic screeching...