You’re born, you’re a kid, you’re a teenager, you pass out face-down in a vomit-covered copy of Calvin and Hobbes in a Mid-West college dorm room, then you turn 25 and die inside.
You’re Ben Grimm and you can’t take it anymore. No more Blue Mondays.
You had kids at 25, you bought a house, you found a church, you lost touch with college friends and made new friends with people that did the same thing you did because it makes you feel good about your choices in life. Your kids get old quick and you turn fifty and you turn your grown kids out and you retire and party and then you die.
But what have you done?
You made money, networked, invested, moved up a bracket – you were somebody, you did what somebodies do. You lived the American Dream, have a trophy wife, spooged out 2.4 kids, saw the world, rocked the bracket, and have the best home theater in Orchard Castle Estates.
You did what you were supposed to do.
You are a whole number.
And you call me irrational.