We love to believe we’re not them.
We’re the enlightened ones — sipping niche coffee, working remotely from somewhere inspiring, paid to think in “culture.”
We speak in frameworks, dress like founders, and treat “normal” like an allergic reaction.
We say: “We’re not average. We’re creative.”
Translation: We’re rich enough to forget what average feels like.
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We spend our days studying people, diagnosing audiences, dissecting behaviours.
We talk about human truths like we’re above them — like “people” is a species we observe from glass.
But we’re not above anything.
We are the people.
We’re just… slightly better at pretending we aren’t.
We live in big cities, in the bright end of the algorithm.
We earn more than most of the planet, but less than the ones we secretly want to be.
We think we’re free — but we’re tethered to rent, Slack, and self-image.
We confuse privilege for perspective.
And still, in the eyes of the happy few, we’re the working class with cooler laptops.
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We live in a world where the rent’s paid by selling “relatability” to the masses we avoid.
We build campaigns that tell others to “be themselves,” while secretly praying our next review says visionary.
We claim no pressure, no comparison — but refresh LinkedIn like stock traders, counting likes as validation.
We’ve turned self-awareness into a branding exercise.
We meditate with one eye on the camera.
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The truth?
Humans — including us — are boring as fuck.
We’re herd animals with expensive sneakers.
We follow trends, we mirror tone, we echo each other’s bravery.
We even schedule originality: “Let’s do something unexpected this quarter.”
There’s no escaping it.
Even rebellion has templates now.
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But here’s the heartbreak hiding under all the irony:
for all our cleverness, we still just want to be loved.
We mock “the people,” but we ache for their approval.
We build stories that make strangers cry, then go home and wonder why no one texts back.
We spend our lives crafting belonging for others, while quietly starving for it ourselves.
Maybe that’s the truest human truth we’ll ever touch —
that even the ones selling meaning are desperate to feel it.
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Maybe it’s time to stop calling them “the people.”
Maybe we are the focus group.
Maybe we’re not here to transcend average — just to make peace with it.
Because beneath the pitch decks and post-rationalisations, there’s a shared craving we can’t delete:
to belong.
to be seen.
to matter.
The herd isn’t out there.
It’s us.
Wow. Seems this one was less satire, more a cry for help.
Don’t worry — I’ve got the helpline number right here.
Or, if retail therapy works faster: averageadman.com/store — the You, the People T-shirt.
You, the people.
