Nobody has enough self-love to accept other peoples’ hate forever.
Maybe my whole life is on the wrong track. Maybe what I need is wilderness and solitude. Maybe I should be a tour guide or a courier or a forest ranger. Maybe the world is just not made for me, or I am not made for the world. I know. You don’t care what the hell I do. You don’t have any empathy for my soul-searching. I’m a male. I’m basically white. “Cry me a river.” I don’t get to have feelings or hopes or doubts. Nobody has to feel sorry for me. I have it made, I rule the world, I oppress everyone else. If I’m not happy and successful, nobody’s going to go out of their way to help me.
So, everyone who thinks I should stop whining and be just go and happy and successful: if I do, and I know that can (pretty easily, in fact, I sometimes think), will you then bitch about me being a part of the problem when I’m sitting amidst all of my wealth ordering people around and consuming conspicuously? If you won’t make room for people like me at the bottom, then you’d better shut up when I’m looking down at you from the top.
People go where they’re wanted.