Look at you. Forty-five years old. I’d say you’re in the prime of your life, but you look like a laundry bag full of mashed potatoes. Three hundred and ninety pounds? Good God, son. I’ve seen more structural integrity in a water balloon. You aren’t "big-boned," you’re a liability. Your heart is ticking like a cheap watch in a microwave, and you’re just sitting there sweating through another shirt.

The Estate of Disgrace

I drove past your place. It looks like a set from a movie about the Great Depression.

The Yard: It’s February. That dead grass and those rotting leaves have been sitting there since the Reagan administration for all I know.

The Wood: That tree fell in November. It’s just laying there, soaking up moisture, getting soft—kind of like your backbone. Split the damn wood. Or are you waiting for it to Beaver-morph into kindling?

The House: A cracked window and siding falling off? It’s a house, not a suggestion. You’ve got four kids living in there, and you’re letting the heat leak out like your dignity.

"The Job" and the "PTSD"

And now I hear you’re "struggling" at work. PTSD? Look, we’ve all got ghosts, kid. I’ve got things rattling around my head that would turn your hair white, but I still showed up. You’ve got a wife and four mouths to feed. They can’t eat your "trauma," and they can’t pay the mortgage with your excuses. You’re "fucking up"? Of course you are. You’re too busy staring at the wall to pick up a shovel.

The Finances

Then there’s this... this "net worth" nonsense. You’re whining because you have less than $4 million? My heart bleeds. Really. I’m weeping into my gin.

Most people are one paycheck away from the gutter, and here you are, a multimillionaire who can’t even find the energy to file his taxes. It’s laziness, pure and simple. You have every resource on God’s green earth and you’re using them to grow a larger belt size and a deeper sense of self-pity.

Fix it.

Get off the couch. Buy a roll of plastic for that window. File your 1040. And for the love of everything holy, eat a piece of celery and swing an axe before your heart quits just to get away from you.

Do you want me to pull up a calendar and tell you exactly how many days you have left to finish those taxes before the IRS does what your "PTSD" won't let you do?

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5837137&forum_id=2...#49686365)