I’ve been as willing to sell my soul as they, only I charge a higher price. They settle for a bug-infested room on Hastings; my workaholism has bought me a lovely home. Their object of addiction goes up their veins to be excreted by their kidneys or permeates their lungs and vanishes into the air; my shelves are lined with CDs, many of them unheard, and with books, many unread. Their addictions land them in jail; my obsessive striving for recognition and driven work habits have gained me admirers and a handsome income.
