Making Your First Million.pdf - Association of Net Entrepreneurs and ...

Making Your First Million
As each day passed I built this wall of pride and disdain higher. Life, I had decided was a
fraud. Had I not, after all, been a dutiful son and scholar? I had. I had endeavored to
follow life's instructions to the letter and yet had come up empty. They said: "Do well at
school and you'll be happy." So I did and I wasn't. They said: "Get a good, safe job and
you'll find satisfaction." I did but I didn't. They said: "Marry and have children and your
life will take on new meaning." I did but it didn't. It wasn't fair. I'd done everything right
but I was profoundly miserable, and I made up my mind then that you could not trust life
or anyone other than yourself. In my mind at least I became Lone Wolf McQuade, riding
the range, righting wrongs.
All this was to change in 1979 when I went into business. Suddenly life was exciting. Not
only could you throw in the job you hated, working from home with a flagon of port for
company, but now there was so much money you tired of counting it. Heaven on a stick!
My greatest joy was the first day back at school in 1980 when my colleagues returned to
work but I didn't. I celebrated, gloating at home as the phone rang and rang with orders
for the products I was selling. At last my life had joy and meaning. Money, wealth,
power, excitement. Over the next few years I explored greater and greater excess,
delighting in the sense of freedom and power I had. Nothing stood in my way. I could
have whatever I wanted and I made sure I wanted for nothing. A Mercedes would be
nice. Sold. How about a sports car. Sold. A boat. Sold. Another house. Sold. A holiday.
Sold.
I found I could buy whatever I wanted. Yet I found myself wanting more. I remember
thinking at the time: "If only I had a sports car. Then I'd be happy, popular, admired and
so on." And I remember sitting in the sun overlooking the ocean on the balcony of the
Beach Hotel having lunch with Bernie, looking down on my newly acquired iridescent
green sports car, thinking: "Is that it? There has to be more. Come on, somebody, jump
out of the cake and yell 'Surprise!'. This can't be all there is." And once again, my old
feelings of self-mockery arose. "You'll never make it, George. You don't belong here and
no matter how much you pay, you'll never be good enough."
And I sank deeper into depression and daily drinking. Money continued to pour through
the mailbox, daily mocking my misery and self-doubt. I became desolate. If money
couldn't make me happy what hope was there? Life truly was a fraud after all. My
drinking was by now continuous, the days dreary and unchanging. I would wake at 9.30,
sick and hung-over, cursing the day for finding me still alive and reach for a bottle of
vermouth. I would answer the phone and pack orders till midday at which happy hour I
gave myself permission to go to Bernie's place and settle in to some serious drinking over
lunch. Lunch would conclude at 5.30 and I would return home to a stony faced wife who
would remain silent till she retired at 9.30 pm. At this point I gave myself permission to
retrieve the 5 litre cask of moselle in the boot of the car which generally took till 1.30 am
to consume at which point I sank into unconsciousness. My overfull bladder would wake
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