“No, I’m not doing great. I just feel sorry for you, man. For six months, you’re going to watch us drive our expensive cars, attend our exclusive parties, and fly our private jets. And when it’s all over, you’ll go home to your one-bedroom apartment in LA and realize that you’ll never have our lifestyle. You’ll never amount to anything other than a second-rate producer of a garbage reality show.” I touch my chest. “That just makes me feel so fucking sad for you.”
