A nightmare

The year is 2050. If I somehow hadn't killed myself by now, psychological typology has become a legitimate scientific discipline, and just like everything else, appropriated by the state. With just a simple brain scan one can get a diagnosis of one's types and then utilize the most effective strategies for actualization of their potential to become a "productive member of society", no understanding of the subject matter required. Those who once called the newly established discipline a 'pseudoscience' looked up the definition of 'hypothesis' and realized how mistaken they were, but alas, there are still those who haven't yet recovered from a result they didn't like on an MBTI test all those years ago. With the growing popularity, typological terminology is becoming the new therapy speak, while the experts silently cringe. Silly debates about the types of celebrities and fictional characters are a thing of the past, because qualified theorists have extracted all the answers by applying the most refined methodology. Everything has become precise and boring, the Enneagram lost its mysticism.

Having fulfilled my mission, I am off to another adventure, following the trail of a new discovery. I should be happy, and yet, I am mourning at the coming of age of my favorite scientific theory.