Now I want A Baconater.

Sometimes I wonder what makes a person driven. Granted it’s this inexhaustible urge to make yourself better, faster, harder and stronger and hopefully without a Daft Punk ringtone. However, at what point do you become complacent with what your have?

To what ends do you beat yourself to the point of no return? Do you stop when you’re unhappy, or make yourself move forwards with the vain hope for a better tomorrow? At that point I believe it all depends on a persons individual definition of “success” and how they see themselves accomplishing such goals. But what happens when you do accomplish these goals? Retirement? Golf? Ample amounts of good wine and hookers without cheesy names? (Because they’re the more expensive ones.)

I can’t understand the two opposite extremes. Those who throw in the towel as soon as possible to become pregnant with their high school sweethearts half retarded demon seed, and those who work too long and too hard to enjoy the embittered and pesticide ridden fruits of their labor. One will always wonder what could have been had they used proper methods of birth control, or taken their dentists advice and worn their retainer in order to become an acceptable member of society. The workaholic will furiously labor into the night, and not know what to do with themselves when given a few precious moments of free time. It depresses me to see the lights still burning in Manhattan office buildings at 10 or 11 at night, as I stand on my roof with the obligatory mixed drink. The same goes for browsing on Facebook and seeing fallen comrades and dickheads proudly displaying their Wal-Mart engagement rings and children’s onesies with barely witty sayings on them. (“Here Comes Trouble”? No sweetie, that’s next week when your rent check is due and Wendy’s only gave you a raise in Baconater’s. It did seem like such a good idea at the time.)

I don’t know which is the better of the two evils, but at the very least the workaholic can stop when the terrible terrible burden that has been resting on their soul becomes too much to bear. When the gravity of their situation overtakes them, they can take off to Cabo for two weeks without telling anyone. They will return tan, perhaps without a kidney, but have enough souvenir shot glasses to last a lifetime. And isn’t that the most important thing?

In the end, I stand by my motto that complacency is the most dangerous word in the English language. Complacency and slut magic, but since Websters has yet to grace the latter with a proper definition I’ll go with my first choice.