I see my kid, my girl, she's like, 38 now, right? And she's got this fancy real estate gig, selling million-dollar pads to people who probably don't even know what a time clock IS. The other day, she mentioned "polo lessons"—polo! My daughter, who grew up watching me fix toilets and patching roofs, suddenly she's got this... accent. It's not even her voice. And I just... nod. It’s kinda funny, in a sick way, all of it. Sometimes I wonder if she even remembers where she came from. The money's good, though. REALLY good. Makes it all a bit easier to swallow, I guess. I just keep hustling, taking whatever odd jobs come my way, while she's out there playing the part, ordering her oat milk lattes and talking about "curated experiences"... it's WILD.