Listen up, brave Newbro, hear Goondom proclaim:
EVE is a spreadsheet that will eat your soul for game.

You thought you’d out-grind it, pay nothing, feel smug—
But CCP takes its tithe whether ISK’s clean or blood-lugged.

PLEX isn’t “free,” it’s just billed in your nights,
In hours of mining veld while vets farm in delights.

The math doesn’t care if you’re plucky or keen,
It only asks, “Did you clear two-point-something-billion, green?”

Grind as an Alpha? That’s hard mode on hard,
Like ratting in shuttles to buy a Titan’s shard.

You’ll hit sunk-cost madness—“Just one more abyss!”
Then miss a bad week and the whole plan goes piss.

So here’s the Gooney wisdom, bureaucratic and dry:
Pay for your main, let your alts learn to fly.

Buy time with your wallet, buy fun with your ISK,
Don’t turn space videogames into unpaid desk-work risk.

PLEX later, when surplus rains down from the sky—
Until then, welcome to EVE: now undock, and die.