>> ..this means the moment your growth takes too long/stagnates by
whatever _arbitrary_ metric:
you get HR's glossy `Exit Packet' with a cover of a pristine chartered
white catamaran on the translucent aquamarine Carribbean in a palm
treed cove, afloat with bikini babes lounging on deck, five minutes to
fill your cardboard box, and manhandled by two security
wide-shouldered bulls squeezing your arms to your sides gripped under
your forearms, marching you down the aisle with rubber-knecking
wide-eyed heads watching you repeatedly slip, fall forward, the
experienced bulls lowering your arms to regain your shoes' purchase
with the carpet, hurriedly packing you into the elevator with silent
ignominious stares and hushed whispers of those packed in around you,
then past hot Tanya at Reception in front of every Tom, Dick, Irene,
and Harry, out the main revolving glass door entrance, into the
overcast dishwater grey and miserable wind blown wet in truth is
Seattle, to the sidewalk, left at the curb -furthest from proper and
successful glitterati as possible.
All double-time haste, signalling to everyone get this despicable
loser/criminal POS off the property, fast.
Its over, you're done. Sooner than you thought possible, you're
freezing in a tent wasting days into months: tailing-downward foodbank
boxes, the TIDE(tm) pee-bottle, those el-cheapo dirty gloves with the
tips cut off, dirty layered thriftstore fleeces, its under filthy
roaring I-5 for you pal, and your ilk of dangerous insane addict-crazed
zombies screaming outside your hideous blue-tarped tent, and where's
the knife.
The answer to the fundamental question of your entire existence and
net worth has reduced to simply ask: "How do I best empty my
bowels"?
ICEstapo hunter/killers gunning for you, to flush you offshore unseen
and forgotten forever. You better run, you better run your ass off.
Why didn't you study harder all those wasted years?!
Welcome to Sam Altman's Club.