Everybody knows a guy who used to do cocaine and now runs a factory. Nice wife. Jacob & Co rugby shirt. Takes a phone call about a shipment while somebody explains how bad he used to be. You should’ve seen this guy in 2009.
He’s doing good now. We have inspected the wife and the factory.
People love this guy. I like him too. What I don’t like is the person telling the story. The enormous relief in their voice that he finally became something they could understand. For a while there he was just alive. Scary situation!
The cocaine is fine retrospectively. Builds character. You can do basically anything in your twenties provided the last slide is a modest home with a new kitchen island. Everybody loves a recovery story where the recovery is becoming their boss.
But say he never runs the factory. Say he gets some ordinary work, watches movies, has friends, enjoys his food. Doesn’t have a revelation about responsibility. Stops doing cocaine because it starts making his chest feel weird. Is there anything to celebrate here or are we still waiting for the story to happen?
What’s his plan.
He’s 58. He’s going to get a sandwich.
I’m interested in the person who finds this answer unacceptable. You’ve established that he can afford the sandwich. He likes the sandwich. There’s still something bothering you.
There are stupid guys at 75 having an incredible time. Shirt tucked in. Knows a place. Has absolutely no intention of developing another dimension to his personality. You could explain every contradiction in the way he lives and he’d still want to know if you were coming to dinner.
This level of functioning is aspirational.
The truly jolly fat man has stumbled into something people spend years reading about. You can call him stupid. He doesn’t have a defense prepared. This saves an unbelievable amount of time.
Meanwhile a guy who hasn’t enjoyed a Saturday since college is qualified to assess him. Good career. Answers emails on vacation. Every pleasure has to come with a little explanation of why it was deserved. He sees somebody enjoying an unearned Tuesday and starts asking questions about their future.
I can spend six hours on my Steam Deck in bed. You can spend six hours answering messages from a man you hate. Apparently we need to have a serious conversation about what I’m doing.
I know what I’m doing. I’m playing a game. Turbo chillin.
There’s money to make. Things to build. I want to make them. Somehow this gets interpreted as an application to have every other hour of my life evaluated.
The factory guy is allowed to sit on his deck. He’s earned it. Everybody is very clear about this.
We’ve reviewed the cocaine. He can sit outside.