work

(n.) activity involving mental or physical effort done in order to achieve a purpose or result.

i think you are a real piece of work. you’re a full-time job. i know you may not be able to comprehend the full weight of the word work, since you never had to a day in your life. you entered this world and the nurses started to clap and cheer, they began to fasten you a medal with what they had lying around. you grew up and bullied girls. you came home and got a hug. you grew up even more and dated women. you dated me. you got me to console you for wanting to fuck other women. the first time we kissed was in a foursome (i needed to be sandwiched between two naked girls to get you to pay attention) so i guess that is on me, a false promise of my promiscuity. i hold your hand and say wow that must be very confusing. here is free college btw. you are getting a little older now and your identity crisis comes in the form of getting a weird haircut and quitting your well-paying job. i get it. it is confusing to live without consequences so you should really test the waters. do some freak shit. date a weird woman. you are desperate to other yourself so try you on the clothes of a poor person. it still isn’t working. here is 15k from your mommy. you will never know failure, since it is not an option for you. it is the only item missing from your beautiful buffet of possibility that some loser like you started preparing hundreds of years ago. can we please get this guy a weighted blanket? he is anxious and his poor person clothes don’t fit quite right. WEIGHTED BLANKET, NOW. HE IS ABOUT TO HAVE A PANIC ATTACK. to be honest, i would be jealous of you if i did not have to bear witness to the destructive path of your listlessness. your inclination to be downwardly mobile to deal with your abundance absolutely disgusts me. the desire to be more useless. wow. it might haunt me forever. i have never met a person more aware of their own narcissism, but somehow delusional enough to be blind to the depth and destruction of it. you will never know failure, and it will haunt you forever. you will grow old, finally take the poor person clothes off, and slip into 500 thread count sheets. you will go to a nice dinner. your kids will have the same life insurance policy that you had. you will make your wife cum once a year and your lingering eye will twist so far back in your thick skull that it may just never swing back around. and when you reflect back on your life, you will frown at the montage. your chest will deflate as you watch yourself pass the time by twiddling your fingers and twisting your pubes with brief moments of intrigue that are entirely provided by the women you fuck. i would wish you good luck but what would be the point