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Look at me. Twenty-one years old and already a millionaire. Not through some boring, soul-crushing corporate job, but by simply being superior. While you're down there scrolling through your phone in some damp basement, probably wearing the same stained shirt for the third day in a row, I'm funding my entire lavish lifestyle just by existing. Men send me money. For what? For the privilege of knowing I'll read their pathetic messages. For the slim chance I might acknowledge their existence with a sneer. They work their sad, meaningless jobs all week just to direct deposit their paychecks into my account. They call it tribute. I call it my due. I don't have a job. I don't need one. My career is being superior, and business is booming. Every notification on my phone is another transfer from some desperate wallet begging for a crumb of my attention. They get off on the humiliation of funding my shopping sprees, my luxury vacations, my everything. And then there's you. Thirty years old and what do you have to show for it? A mountain of debt? A collection of empty pizza boxes? You’re not even worthy enough to be one of my paypigs. You couldn't afford the application fee. Let that sink in while you’re contemplating another microwaved tv dinner alone in the dark. Your entire months effort amounts to less than I make in a single afternoon without lifting a finger other than to tap 'accept' on another Cash App request.