The Pyramid of Empty Calories

Marcus stood before his bathroom mirror at 6 AM, dry-swallowing a handful of supplements. The vitamin C tablet caught in his throat—a sharp reminder that forty-two was the age where maintenance became a full-time job. His wife Elena had left him three months ago, citing emotional unavailability, which he'd argued was unfair considering he was available for all quarterly earnings calls and her sister's wedding.

At the office, the corporate pyramid loomed over him—a glass monument to compromise. Brenda from Accounting called it 'The Penis of Commerce,' which Marcus found juvenile, though he never said so aloud. He was two rungs from the top, staring down at the漫长 stretch of middle management beneath him.

'You look like shit, Marcus,' said Sarah, his executive assistant, smoothing her already-immaculate blouse. 'You should eat something green.'

He'd tried. Last night's spinach salad had tasted like regret and wet grass, a sad attempt at reinvention that ended with him ordering a burger at midnight. The delivery driver had given him a look that said, 'I know what you're going through, buddy.' It was remarkably specific for someone delivering overpriced comfort food to a man in pajamas.

The quarterly review was brutal. The new CEO, a thirty-year-old former tech bro named Tyler, used the word 'disruption' seventeen times in forty minutes.

'This bull market won't last forever,' Tyler said, his teeth too white, his eyes too empty. 'We need to pivot.'

Marcus thought about the bull he'd seen at a state fair as a child—massive, confused, charging at nothing in particular while spectators cheered from safe distances. He'd felt sorry for it then. Now he understood it completely.

Later, standing on his balcony with a glass of scotch, Marcus realized the supplements weren't working. Nothing was working. He was climbing a pyramid that grew taller each year, surrounded by people who spoke in buzzwords and ate salad for lunch while dreaming of cheeseburgers. Elena was probably somewhere eating spinach with someone who knew how to feel things.

He swallowed another vitamin. Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he'd start living differently. The thought itself had the familiar taste of something he'd said before, something he didn't quite believe anymore.