Behold the Duke of Sussex, a man who has managed to transform the burden of unimaginable privilege into a full-time career as a professional victim. The latest installment of the Sussex Tragedy features Prince Harry, visibly moist-eyed and trembling with the righteous indignation of a man who has everything and still feels cheated, speaking about the 'absolute misery' the media inflicted upon his wife. It is a masterclass in the theater of the self, a high-definition broadcast of a private pain that—conveniently—is always shared in front of a microphone.

Let us first unpack the concept of 'misery' as defined by the upper echelons of the global elite. To the average inhabitant of this crumbling rock, misery might involve the inability to afford basic healthcare, the looming specter of eviction, or the soul-crushing monotony of a minimum-wage job. To the Prince, however, misery is the existence of a camera lens. It is the audacity of the British tabloid press—those parasitic, ink-stained scavengers—to document the life of a woman who voluntarily entered one of the most famous and publicly funded families in human history. The irony is so thick it could be served as a royal pudding: a couple that fled the United Kingdom to seek 'privacy' has done more to keep themselves in the public eye than a Kardashian on a branding spree.

The British press, of course, deserves no quarter. They are a collection of bottom-feeding ghouls who treat human dignity as an obstacle to click-through rates. Their obsession with Meghan Markle is a toxic blend of post-colonial anxiety and pure, unadulterated boredom. They represent the worst of the Right: a desperate, pearl-clutching adherence to a 'tradition' that is essentially a centuries-long grift involving fancy hats and stolen land. They hate the Sussexes because they represent a break in the script, a failure of the royal brand to remain a quiet, obedient museum exhibit.

But let us not pretend the Sussexes are the virtuous heroes of this melodrama. They represent the worst of the Left: a performative, weaponized brand of intersectional grievance that uses the language of social justice to protect the feelings of the ultra-wealthy. Harry’s tears are not for the plight of the commoner; they are for the fact that he can no longer control the narrative. This is the ultimate tantrum of a man who was raised to believe the world was his palace and discovered, much to his horror, that it is actually a marketplace. He wants the prestige of the title without the price of the scrutiny. He wants to be a private citizen who accepts checks for millions of dollars to tell his 'truth' while crying about the fact that people are listening.

The 'misery' of Meghan Markle has become a commodity, a piece of intellectual property to be traded for Netflix deals and book advances. If her life was truly a nightmare of scrutiny, one might expect a strategic retreat into a quiet, anonymous existence in the countryside. Instead, we are treated to a perpetual grievance tour, where every tear is captured in 4K resolution. It is a symbiotic relationship of the most pathetic kind: the media needs the royals to survive, and the royals—even the 'renegade' ones—need the media to remain relevant. Without the flashbulbs, Harry is just a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a very expensive therapist.

What is truly exhausting is the audience. The drooling masses who pick sides in this soap opera as if it has any bearing on their own wretched lives. The monarchists who defend a hereditary system of wealth and power, and the 'Team Meghan' stans who believe that a Duchess is a revolutionary icon of the proletariat. Both sides are equally deluded. They are arguing over which brand of narcissism they prefer. The reality is that the Royal Family and the press are two heads of the same dragon, consuming itself in a cycle of manufactured outrage and strategic leaks.

As Harry fights back tears, we are expected to feel a surge of empathy. We are expected to forget the grotesque disparity between his 'misery' and the actual suffering of a world on fire. It is a testament to the stupidity of our species that we continue to platform the complaints of the most pampered people on earth. The Prince’s tears aren't a sign of vulnerability; they are the ultimate flex of the modern celebrity—the ability to demand that the entire world stop and acknowledge their feelings while they sit in a California mansion. The planet is dying, the economy is a hallucination, and the geopolitical landscape is a tinderbox, but please, tell us more about how the mean headlines made you sad. It is enough to make one wish for the heat death of the universe, or at least a global power outage that lasts for the next century.