War is hell. I'm here to tell you. I've seen it. I was one of the lucky ones, though: I lived through it and came out the other side.
Sure, I was damaged - all of us super-rich banker types were - but most of us vets have managed to pull ourselves together and maintain some shred of dignity. It's not easy, though - sometimes I still wake up screaming in the middle of the night, soaked in sweat. It scares the bejesus out of my wife.
"You were screaming again," she'll tell me.
"What did I say?"
"It was something like, 'Marginal tax rate, incoming!!' And then I think you shouted, 'We're down to our last 9 percent!' "
"I'm so sorry, snookums," I'll say. "It's just that sometimes the dreams get so bad . . . "
"It's OK, dear, it's OK," she'll say, and stroke my quaking hands. "And then you yelled, 'Union thugs, inside the wire!' and you shot bolt upright. My god, I had to pry the Bloomberg terminal out of your hands, you were clutching it so tight. You wouldn't let it go."
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