Put a rich person in a luxurious chaise longue before a million dollar view, wave palm fronds so he's not too warm, adjust his umbrella so it's just sunny enough, swathe him in tanning lotion because his dermatologist says he's extra susceptible, massage his feet, ply him with snacks and cooling drinks, and attend to every last desire, fear, preference, and whimsy—and he'll torture himself over that awful thing his third grade teacher said to him once. He'll dig into his bag of go-to bitter lozenges to find some way to ballast his happiness.I asked ChatGPT to proofread, and noted that the final sentence was a modern take on the Hsin Hsin Ming (aka Verses on the Faith Mind by The 3rd Zen Patriarch, Sengstau).
Let his glass remain empty for a moment or two, and he’ll find it even easier to reframe himself into Hell. There are myriad routes to misery when non-delight parses as persecution.
It agreed, noting that my version is "more culturally fluent in neurosis." I was, it decided, offering "Secular Zen with Bourgeois Teeth," which I said I'd use when people ask me what I write about ("Oh, you know, secular Zen with bourgeois teeth, etc.")
The chatbot suggested tagging on "also: tacos" for a complete description of what I do.
I couldn't argue.
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