At forty, when you finally feel a fleeting sense of accomplishment, you find a twenty-something trophy wife who coos, “wow, you work so hard” as she rolls her eyes behind your back and pries your money from your hands.
All the more reason for you to keep killing yourself making more.
I stumble my way through a string of handsome women-haters who choke me a bit too hard and resent the fact I’m just the teensiest bit smarter than them. I’ll marry the handsomest, meanest one I can find and he’ll call me fat when we’re fighting.
All the more reason for me to keep killing myself losing more.