Why do more?
Because, if you're the kind of smug, solipsistic, self-obsessed prick that writes a post like that, you have no world except work.
I have a world apart from work. For a start, the great love of my life will die before I do, and if I'm not careful, before we get to live together any significant time in the great joint love of our life, a patch of bush that hasn't been torn down by the concreters and improvers.
Because I'd rather worry about money than devote myself to some fleeting passion that doesn't count for anything after love.
Because I don't care about the things you care about, Seth. I don't want to be famous. I don't want to develop some insane, pointless passion for an abstract that doesn't give back. Because the greatest ambition of my life is to spend it within arm's-reach of a woman who pursued me, seduced me, captivated me, slept with me, loved me, married me, and is still here 25 years later in spite of my shortcomings.
Because your passions are dry as last year's leaves, as dead as my father, as pointless as the entire app-driven, consumerist, toy-obsessed, must-have-the-next-thing-sooner, pathetic, loveless, lifeless, reductionist, evangelised, American world you inhabit.
Because I don't fucking care about the loves of your life. A byte doesn't love you back, doesn't kiss you goodnight, doesn't cook a simple beef stew that I and my sons consider ambrosia, in spite of illness and injury. A byte, a development project, or a fucking app doesn't deliver life, love, whispers in the night, promises that tomorrow will be better.
And you know what, Seth? I'd rather gouge my own cheeks off with my fingernails than to pretend that your artificial passion was worth more money.
Because actually, dude, it's the same artificial shit that you've told me matters for twenty years and the only thing it's good for is making money.
So don't give me that rich-man “oh, it's not about the money” pretentious crap, because only the same kind of suckers that believe TED talks agree with you. And they're never short of money.
In the mean time, you patronising fuckwit, dickhead, you rich-man-pretending-to-have-homespun-philosophy – don't waste your time telling people who only have money to get them past tomorrow that it doesn't matter.
Because if they, and I, don't get tomorrow's money, bad things happen. Fuckwit. Someone fails to eat. Someone dies. Someone can't get the car registration or insurance paid, and has to give up some other opportunity because there wasn't enough money.
Because the sterile cocoon that you inhabit bears no relationship to a life of terror, illness, love and death.
Don't try to motivate me. I have sufficient motivation all on my own.