If chivalry is dead then I'm the gentleman who showed up to the funeral in a matte-black Lamborghini, slept with the widow in the coatroom, and left a five-star Yelp review for the catering.
People like to pretend morality collapses in dramatic fashion — swords clashing, violins screaming, someone delivering a monologue about honor before falling nobly into the abyss.
In reality it usually dies much more quietly, somewhere between a decision and a good story, preferably while expensive alcohol is involved.
My life has simply been a long series of those moments, and if that makes me the villain then at least, I'm a well-dressed one with excellent transportation and surprisingly supportive accomplices.
Because that's the funny part.
My women—brilliant, dangerous, slightly unhinged creatures that they are— have never once tried to stop me from making questionable choices.
