What's it like to never fail? Where is the joy in always succeeding? Think about the first time you did anything like ride a bike or try and ski. You failed. You failed horribly. The skies went out from underneath you and you fell over. Or your Dad let go of the back of your seat and you rode off in an elliptical like curve only to hit the curb and fall over.
It was rough. You probably cried or you thought to yourself, "why the fuck would anyone want to sit on the side of this hill all day in the fucking cold." But you got up. You kept trying. You failed some more but every time you failed you failed a little better. One day you went out there and you rode all the way down the street without falling over. You succeed. You learned the joy of succeeding because you had eaten fucking dirt.
What if you were Mike Simonetti and you seemingly never failed? What keeps you going? Is it just a job at that point that you do like any other one. Is it still sweet or just bland? Without the famine where is the joy in the permanent feast? I imagine it becomes a cross, an albatross you're forced to carry with you everywhere you go.
I don't think Mr. Simonetti is sitting up at not worrying about this. His existential spirit is probably kept at bay by the hoards off beautiful women I imagine he pleases every night. But, dear reader, say a pray tonight for our hero, a man whose hands know only the cold touch of gold and the troubled mind of unlimited success.
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