Yep, you did it again: you ordered the Pickled Onion Bleu Bison Burger—and with a gluten-free bun, for Christ’s sake. You only made $200 this week, yet you still let your friends drag you here? Wake up and smell the $14 sweet potato fries: Ken is a lawyer, Nadira teaches at a prep school, Ahmed is an orthodontist, and you, sir, are a temp copywriter who “does some freelance stuff.”

I know that I’m just a $150 slab of hand-crafted wood who absorbs upper-middle-class mouth germs every day, but I know the scoop. You aren’t Green Burger’s typical clientele—the only people who can afford this place are housewives on the verge of divorce, corporate drones on their lunch breaks, and suburban teenagers whose weekly allowance exceeds your monthly income.

Call it nostalgia, but I am genuinely concerned about your bank account balance.

I was speaking to the metal French-fry basket about this in the dish rack last night. All of the people your age who come in here humble brag about their salaries on the reg., their conversations sprinkled with corporate niceties of course—but you? You always act like you’re not still on your family’s cell phone plan.

Face it, you don’t fit in here. The metal French-fry basket’s best pal, the red and white checkered liner thing (forgot his name) thinks that I’m being a bit harsh on ya. Maybe I just don’t like the way you wear your orange beanie half on your head—I don’t know.

I’ll admit it: I felt bad for you the first time. It was obvious by the way you shoveled those crispy brussel sprouts into your mouth that you’ve been living off 99 cent ramen. I get it—we all need to treat ourselves from time to time—but you still haven’t paid your rent this month, and don’t think that Tyler’s forgotten about the $25 you owe him for the Uber last Saturday.

Admittedly, I see a bit of myself in you. Believe it or not, but there was once a time that I didn’t live in a restaurant with vintage metal chairs. I wasn’t born to be a serving tray in a 4.2-star place wedged between an independent coffee shop and an upscale Italian restaurant. According to the avant-garde Brooklynite artist who sold me, the Teak tree that made me was once a slime-fest for slugs in the rainforest. You hear that? Slugs! Slime! If I could get here, then you sure as hell can convince your friends that 5 Guys is just as good as this joint. And here’s another humble reminder: you still owe Bard College $72,000 for that MFA you just had to have.

I wish I could say that I’ve seen a lot of people who lack such common sense, but it’s quite rare. I realize that you grew up with a mother who threw New Year’s Eve parties in a colonial home with light gray walls and beautiful crown molding, but that’s not your reality anymore. I hate to be harsh because you seem like a cool guy (except for when you explained Slaughterhouse 5 to that unassuming blue-haired barista) but it’s time to get real. Go home, steal one of your roommate’s hard seltzers, and binge-watch Disney+ like a responsible adult.

I'll be honest: perhaps I'm just jealous that you're a sentient being who has the ability to make an actual difference in the world, yet you spend your time ragging on people who don't like Wes Anderson movies.

I hope that you saved the $100 your mom loaned you, because you decided to splurge on the “Boozy S’Mores Milkshake” and the waitress is swiping your debit card as we speak.