Life, baby, ain’t some goddamn timeshare you can pawn off on your accountant. It’s a blood-curdling, batshit rendezvous with the abyss, and you’re the only one strapped into the goddamn rocket. You can hire a lawyer to fight your battles, a therapist to untangle your neuroses, and a chef to nuke your microwave burritos – but that won’t buy you a single goddamn second of authentic experience. Face it, champ, this ride is all yours, and the only way out is through the meat grinder. Buckle up, buttercup, ’cause life doesn’t take reservations.
You ever seen those sorry sacks huddled around the frozen burrito aisle, delegating their dinners to some minimum wage drone? That’s the face of a life lived by proxy. They’re sleepwalking through the goddamn buffet, letting some corporate suit pick their flavor. Life ain’t a pre-packaged McRib, sunshine. It’s a smorgasbord of chaos, a psychedelic freak-out where the only menu is scribbled on the bathroom stall in disappearing ink. You gotta dive in headfirst, gorge yourself on the weird stuff, and hope your stomach can handle the ride.
The suits in the ivory towers, those button-down bastards who think life can be managed with spreadsheets and quarterly reports – they’re the ones peddling this delegation bullshit. They want you numb, plugged into the system, a cog in their goddamn machine. But life ain’t some corporate assembly line,champ. It’s a goddamn Kentucky Derby on acid, a free-for-all where the only rule is there are no rules. You gotta take the reins, steer this goddamn chariot into the heart of the hurricane, and laugh like a loon as the world explodes in a kaleidoscope of chaos. That, my friend, is living.
Life, son, ain’t some goddamn timeshare you can pawn off on the bellhop. It’s a blood-soaked rollercoaster through a funhouse on fire. You can’t just strap yourself in and order a Mai Tai while the freaks parade by. This ain’t Vegas, baby. This is the whole damn buffet, and it’s all a la carte.
Sure, you can hire some yuppie life coach to scribble your dreams on a whiteboard and drone on about “synergy” and “positive vibes.” But that’s just buying snake oil from a carnival huckster. The real juice, the good stuff that’ll leave you with a hangover that makes Tijuana look quaint – that comes from diving headfirst into the goddamn abyss and clawing your way back up, spitting teeth and screaming your own name.