You will never be a real workaholic. You have no blood in your pee, you have no eye bags, you have a spring in your step. You are a regular jovial man twisted by ideals and bragging into a crude mockery of the meat grinder's perfection.

All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back people mock you. Your parents are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your happy appearance behind closed doors.

Women are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed women to sniff out hard workers with incredible efficiency. Even 9-5ers who “pass” look uncanny and unnatural to a woman. Your spine is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk girl home with you, she’ll turn tail and bolt the second she gets a glance of your warm, sat-in couch.

You will always be happy. You wrench out a fake frown every single evening and tell yourself you're overworked, but deep inside you feel the carefreeness creeping up like a weed, ready to lift you through the very bearable weight.

Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll meet a woman, tie the knot, put it in her, and plunge into the future together. Your parents will find you, happy but relieved that they no longer have to live with a son who claims he works too much. They’ll bury you at the age of 95 with a headstone marked "family man", and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a regular guy is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton that was unmistakably little-used.

This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.