Live, laugh falsely and exclusively for networking purposes, perish.
What doesn’t kill you makes you terrified and potentially on the receiving end of a mauve colored, toothy, fungi-covered monster attack whom you thought was made up but turned out to be real whose violent ambush on you will most definitely trigger the need for major spinal surgery.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words like, “You look tired,” will scar my subconscious for decades and render me incapable of ever successfully loving or working again.
Live life to the fullest, but only if you are independently wealthy and can afford subtle but elegant collagen injections.
When life gives you lemons, check to see if ticks or beetles have eroded the skin of said lemons, turning them utterly inedible and transforming them into tragically brown, kiwi-esque stress balls.
You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take, especially when they’re tequila shots you can’t afford because you lost thousands in your divorce from a guy named Blake.
You plan, God laughs, because your plan was to own a beach cabana in the East Hampton by the time you were 30 but instead you’re a dogwalker/dj/actor/model/knife entrepreneur who lives in his aunt’s attic.
Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon ’em, but you were born mediocre, continued to achieve less than average to average success, and did indeed have painfully dull normality thrust upon you when you decided to start a podcast about different cheeses.