
So don’t tell me that there’s something uniquely demanding about building yet another fucking startup that dwarfs the accomplishments of The Origin of Species or winning five championship rings. It’s bullshit. Extractive, counterproductive bullshit peddled by people who either need a narrative to explain their personal sacrifices and regrets or who are in a position to treat the lives and wellbeing of others like cannon fodder.
I doubt it. While it’s hard to imagine you ever reaching the size of Facebook, I can’t imagine you going belly up, either. The New Yorker is a fraction the size of, and not nearly as lucrative as, the behemoth People. And yet it’s healthy and far more influential. Besides, you still have plenty of room to grow — and will, once you figure out how to do some of th…