Candy-stripe a cancer ward. It's not my problem.
You're not your job. You're not how much money you have in the bank. You're not the car you drive. You're not the contents of your wallet. You're not your fucking khakis. You're the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.
Now, a question of etiquette - as I pass, do I give you the ass or the crotch?
I ran. I ran until my muscles burned and my veins pumped battery acid. Then I ran some more.
