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- Марк Мэнсон
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- Тонкое искусство пофигизма
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- Стр. 24/115
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Entitlement
closes
in
upon
itself
in
a
kind
of
narcissistic
bubble
,
distorting
anything
and
everything
in
such
a
way
as
to
reinforce
itself
.
People
who
feel
entitled
view
every
occurrence
in
their
life
as
either
an
affirmation
of
,
or
a
threat
to
,
their
own
greatness
.
If
something
good
happens
to
them
,
it
’
s
because
of
some
amazing
feat
they
accomplished
.
If
something
bad
happens
to
them
,
it
’
s
because
somebody
is
jealous
and
trying
to
bring
them
down
a
notch
.
Entitlement
is
impervious
.
People
who
are
entitled
delude
themselves
into
whatever
feeds
their
sense
of
superiority
.
They
keep
their
mental
facade
standing
at
all
costs
,
even
if
it
sometimes
requires
being
physically
or
emotionally
abusive
to
those
around
them
.
But
entitlement
is
a
failed
strategy
.
It
’
s
just
another
high
.
It
’
s
not
happiness
.
The
true
measurement
of
self
-
worth
is
not
how
a
person
feels
about
her
positive
experiences
,
but
rather
how
she
feels
about
her
negative
experiences
.
A
person
like
Jimmy
hides
from
his
problems
by
making
up
imagined
successes
for
himself
at
every
turn
.
And
because
he
can
’
t
face
his
problems
,
no
matter
how
good
he
feels
about
himself
,
he
is
weak
.
A
person
who
actually
has
a
high
self
-
worth
is
able
to
look
at
the
negative
parts
of
his
character
frankly
—
“
Yes
,
sometimes
I
’
m
irresponsible
with
money
,
”
“
Yes
,
sometimes
I
exaggerate
my
own
successes
,
”
“
Yes
,
I
rely
too
much
on
others
to
support
me
and
should
be
more
self
-
reliant
”
—
and
then
acts
to
improve
upon
them
.
But
entitled
people
,
because
they
are
incapable
of
acknowledging
their
own
problems
openly
and
honestly
,
are
incapable
of
improving
their
lives
in
any
lasting
or
meaningful
way
.
They
are
left
chasing
high
after
high
and
accumulate
greater
and
greater
levels
of
denial
.
But
eventually
reality
must
hit
,
and
the
underlying
problems
will
once
again
make
themselves
clear
.
It
’
s
just
a
question
of
when
,
and
how
painful
it
will
be
.
Things
Fall
Apart
I
sat
in
my
9
:
00
A
.
M
.
biology
class
,
arms
cradling
my
head
on
my
desk
as
I
stared
at
the
clock
’
s
second
hand
making
laps
,
each
tick
syncopated
with
the
teacher
’
s
dronings
-
on
about
chromosomes
and
mitosis
.
Like
most
thirteen
-
year
-
olds
stuck
in
a
stuffy
,
fluorescent
classroom
,
I
was
bored
.
A
knock
came
on
the
door
.
Mr
.
Price
,
the
school
’
s
assistant
principal
,
stuck
his
head
in
.
“
Excuse
me
for
interrupting
.
Mark
,
can
you
step
outside
with
me
for
a
moment
?
Oh
,
and
bring
your
things
with
you
.
”
Strange
,
I
thought
.
Kids
get
sent
to
the
principal
,
but
the
principal
rarely
gets
sent
to
them
.
I
gathered
my
things
and
stepped
out
.
The
hallway
was
empty
.
Hundreds
of
beige
lockers
converged
on
the
horizon
.
