I Don't Know How to Envy You. And I Envy You.
I don't know how to envy. Honestly. I couldn't care less about your career takeoff on a porta-potty in Dubai or how many facelifts you've had this week. How much money you've made — that's your business. It'll become mine only if you and my homie Scrooge McDuck let me take a dip in your paper swimming pool :) credit cards accepted.
Your kids are magnificent, they eat well, and drink at least three liters of water a day. The veneered smile of your husband or wife blinds me every time I forget to pull my kneecaps out of my eye sockets.
And even when I occasionally fly up to the International Space Station for lunch, I can still see that smile somewhere between the Grand Canyon and the Nazca Lines. Your suit — two-piece, three-piece, ten-piece (?) — fits perfectly, and every corporation on Earth offers you a multi-billion-dollar contract just because you actually remembered to put it on instead of leaving the house in your underwear.
If you call envy your fuel, then let me ask — how exactly will other people's success or failure suddenly make you rich and protect you from erectile dysfunction?
Sure, you want everyone else to be doing worse than you, but guess what — you'll still be you. Rich or broke, famous or some nameless jerk who's gonna live a few more decades and then go straight to recycling.
And I'll go there with you, buddy:) we'll envy the graveworms together. They're the ones who are actually alive. Unlike the two of us.
The Robot asked the Worker-Man: "Can a Worker-Man compose a symphony? Or take a blank canvas and turn it into a masterpiece?"
And then the jacuzzi exploded, and they became wet pussycats. Not 18+