Good morning, John. Almost 10 years ago, I got on stage wearing a lanyard in the worst way possible and told a room full of people something that I still think is true. You have no obligation to your former self. There is one person I can say objectively that I am smarter than, and it is me four years ago. He knew like all the things that I currently know except less, and yet all the life experiences that I currently have except fewer. So why do I have an obligation to a guy who not only is dumber than me, but literally does not exist? If the wisdom of the last 10 years and knowing full well that I am asked that guy 10 years ago said, smarter than him, I could add some nuance to that statement. Yes, my former self is dumber than me. No, they don't exist, but I am also just a story that I tell to myself about myself. That's what I am. And so there is something kind of tricky about having no obligation to my former self. It is easy, I think, to easy these days, sometimes, to lose connections, to our past, to our friends, to our communities, to our families, to our places and our nations and our religions and our histories. Because ultimately it is probably true that those things are arbitrary. We just happened into them, and maybe good, maybe bad. There are easier things in life to do than to feel connected to those things. Like TikTok is the easiest thing, right? Smartphone games are very easy. Doing what you got to do to get your work done, it's easy to prioritize that because you got to pay the bills. The kinds of investments that we make in connection, I think are harder. If in part because they're not necessary, we are not obliged to maintain them. Now, some of them we are. We feel that obligation, and sometimes we don't. This is very different for different people. But I think the amount of obligation that we feel to our former selves, to our communities, to our families, I think it's safe to say that even if it's high for you, it is on average lower for society as a whole than it was 50 years ago. John, when I was in high school, I was a bit of a punk or I like to think of myself that way. I listened to the dead milk band and rancid and Operation Ivy in the clash, and I did not want to have a normal, standard life. Because, you know, of course I didn't as a high school student, but I definitely didn't want to be a business man. I didn't want to be a lawyer. And I remember having the thought many times that when I was 40 years old, I wanted to get a Mohawk because that would prove that I had a job where you could get a Mohawk, which would mean that I had succeeded in the 17-year-old Hank's version of what a cool life was. And honestly, that's dumb. It's silly. Until quite recently, I had a job where getting Mohawk would have made my job and the jobs of my peers harder. It was just like a little, not like substantially, but enough. But that doesn't mean that I didn't think about it. I totally did. I thought about what I owe that former version of myself and my thought was, you know, nothing. He's dumber than me and he doesn't exist. But look, I am a story that I tell to myself. And 17-year-old me is a vital part of that story. I am not him, but I love him. I care about him. I care about and love a lot of people who don't exist anymore, whether they've died or they've just changed. Like, I care about and love 20-year-old Catherine, and she's not that same person anymore. But I still love 20-year-old Catherine, and I also love 43-year-old Catherine. 17-year-old me was so certain and passionate and scared and wild and often very kind. He was a good guy. He was kind of wonderful, and he became me. And I feel like I was given an opportunity this week to honor him. So here I am, John. I do not have no obligation to my former self. I have the amount of obligation to my former self that I want to have, and I want to have some. John, I'll see you on Tuesday.