You will get older, uglier, and fatter with each year. Soon you will notice young women no longer take your flirtations seriously. Your sloth and social detachment will worsen until people don’t even bother to be polite around you. You will gradually lower your standards in what you want in a girl until desperation pushes you to marry a dumpy oinker well past her prime. You will rut with her once a week, then once a month, then holidays only. You will relieve yourself drearily masturbating in the middle of the night by the cold flickering light of your computer monitor while that bloated seacow who doesn’t give a shit for your desires snores in the bed you can no longer get a good night’s sleep in. Your one shred of solace will come from knowing your depreciating asset – A.K.A. wife – will have as few options as you do virtually guaranteeing lifelong fidelity.

...

And then, finally, the Grim Reaper will steal your last breath and you will disappear from the world as if you had never been here and when they bury you no one will really notice and no one will really care because in your whole life you never never never, not even once, stepped off the hamster wheel and did anything courageous or interesting or different.

And it will be too late when you realize that the chains clasped to your ankles and wrists were unlocked all along and you were always free to go.