Let us gather, my weary children of the cubicle apocalypse, for I bring grim tidings: the Banks of Lumbar Integrity have declared bankruptcy, your ergonomic chairs are a lie, the world is a plankless void, and your spinal cord is one bad Netflix binge away from irrevocable collapse. There was once a golden age, when men and women would stride across the land like gluten-free colossi, their vertebrae shimmering with the resilience of artisanal sourdough. But those days are gone. Our ancestors walked 15 miles to buy cigarettes and a quart of whole milk. Today? Our step-counts are measured in shame. I know what you're thinking. "Dropout, enough with the bleakness! Surely there is a solution that doesn't involve trading my pancreas for celebrity chiropractor NFTs?" Oh, there is—a cure so radical it shames all modern science. And it is this: You must walk, my follower. And walk. And walk, until your very soul blisters, until you can no longer differentiate an Apple Watch buzz from the trembling of existential terror. The prophets from the icy North have spoken, strapping $800 space-pagers to the thighs of unwitting Norwegians. Their grim findings? Walk less, and the curse of Lower Back Pain (LBP to those on the inside) will whisper your name every time you try to tie your shoe. Walk more—100, 110, 125 minutes—as if fleeing a sentient standing desk uprising—and your risk diminishes by fractions measurable only in statistics courses I failed three times before dropping out completely. But does anyone listen? Of course not. No, we huddle in our ergonomic trenches, comforted by lumbar-support pillows as soft as our resolve, praying the great god Tylenol will forgive our sedentary trespasses. Hoping Pilates will save us, even as our yoga mats gather dust atop the stationary bike graveyard. You want back pain prevention, you say? Here’s your only real shot: sell everything, abandon your desk to the crows, and embark on a pilgrimage to the end of your block or, if you are truly brave, to that faraway Target that stocks organic cranberry juice. Count your steps as you would count the days until the climate crisis renders all walking moot. Know that every minute you walk, you thumb your nose at the ancient curse that doomed our species the moment we invented the office job. Yet, most of you will ignore these warnings. You’ll say, "No, Dropout! You exaggerate! The numbing electric ache in my fifth lumbar is probably just gas." Fools! That is no gas. That is the silent scream of countless intervertebral discs collapsing like finance startups during a crypto winter. So, pilgrim, heed my gospel: walk more. Walk endlessly. Walk until the algorithm shudders before your relentless mobility. Otherwise, prepare for an eternity of chiropractors and the slow encroachment of pain, coming for you with the inevitability of an unpaid student loan. To summarize: the solution is so infuriatingly simple it could only be a cosmic joke. Walk a lot, every day, or be consumed by the End Times of your own back. The hour is late. Lace up.