If your current get-rich project fails, take what you learned and

Host: The city was alive with neon veins, its pulse steady and unrelenting. A million windows glowed across the skyline, each a tiny confession of dreams, failures, and midnight persistence. Down below, in a quiet rooftop bar, the rain drummed a lazy rhythm on the glass canopy.

Jack sat with his coat half-open, a glass of bourbon catching the amber glint of the city lights. His grey eyes looked like storm clouds about to break. Across from him, Jeeny leaned on the table, her hair damp from the rain, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp — the kind that saw right through excuses.

Beneath them, the streets buzzed with movement — people chasing chances, luck, or the ghosts of both.

Jeeny: “Scott Adams once said, ‘If your get-rich project fails, take what you learned and try something else. The universe has plenty of luck to go around; you just need to keep your hand raised until it’s your turn. It helps to see failure as a road and not a wall.’”

Jack: Half-smirking. “Sounds like something an optimist would say after he cashed his first check.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But he’s right. Most people stop raising their hand after the first failure. They think the universe forgot their name.”

Jack: “Or maybe the universe’s line is just busy. You ever think of that?”

Jeeny: “It’s only busy for the ones who hang up too soon.”

Host: The rain outside thickened, falling in sharp streaks that blurred the skyline. A faint jazz tune played from the old speaker in the corner — soft, melancholic, like the background music of persistence.

Jack: “You make failure sound noble. It’s not. It’s humiliating. It strips you bare in front of everyone who said, ‘I told you so.’”

Jeeny: “Humiliation fades. Stagnation doesn’t. Every failure builds something invisible — a bridge, a scar, a map. You might not see it yet, but it’s guiding you somewhere.”

Jack: “Guiding me where? To another cliff?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But every cliff teaches you how to fall better.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He ran a finger along the rim of his glass, the sound small and steady, like the ticking of a clock.

Jack: “You talk like luck’s a guarantee. It’s not. Some people never get their turn.”

Jeeny: “Because they stop showing up.”

Jack: Sharply. “You think showing up’s enough? I’ve shown up for years — meetings, investors, ideas that went up in smoke. You know what I got? Debt. Regret. And a résumé that looks like a crime scene.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve earned wisdom. The kind no degree teaches. Adams didn’t say luck finds the smartest — he said it finds the most stubborn.”

Jack: “Stubbornness doesn’t pay rent.”

Jeeny: “Neither does giving up.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated the glass, turning the rain into molten silver. For a moment, both faces reflected in it — his, hard and tired; hers, calm and unwavering.

Jack: “You ever fail at something that mattered?”

Jeeny: Quietly. “Every important thing I’ve ever done.”

Jack: “You make it sound romantic.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s survival. I failed out of university my first year. I tried starting a business and lost everything. I even loved the wrong person once — thought it was fate. But each time, I got up and said, ‘So what now?’ That question saved me.”

Jack: “So what now.” He repeated it slowly, like tasting the idea. “You really think the universe notices when you keep trying?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think you do. And that’s enough. Because the moment you stop seeing failure as a wall, you start seeing roads where others stop walking.”

Host: The rain softened, turning to a steady drizzle. Cars below hissed along wet asphalt. The city, it seemed, was exhaling.

Jack: “You know what failure feels like? It’s like standing in front of a locked door, pounding your fists until your hands bleed. You can tell yourself there’s another door somewhere, but you can’t see it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the trick isn’t to keep pounding. Maybe it’s to turn around and realize there’s an open window behind you.”

Jack: “That’s easy to say from the window seat.”

Jeeny: Leaning closer. “You think I haven’t bled for mine?”

Host: The silence that followed was not cold — it was raw. The kind of silence that only two people who understand failure could share.

Jeeny: “Jack, luck doesn’t come to the deserving. It comes to the available. The universe doesn’t care if you’re perfect — only that you’re present.”

Jack: “Present in failure?”

Jeeny: “Present in learning. Every failure that hurts is a classroom. You just have to stop skipping the lesson.”

Jack: “So what — you just keep failing until the universe decides to throw you a bone?”

Jeeny: “No. You keep failing until you realize you don’t need the bone. You’ve already built the backbone.”

Host: Jack laughed — not bitterly this time, but softly, almost surprised by it. The sound blended with the rain like something alive.

Jack: “You always turn failure into philosophy.”

Jeeny: “Because failure’s the truest philosopher we have. It humbles you, forces you to see what pride hides. That’s where real change begins.”

Jack: “You make it sound like faith.”

Jeeny: “It is. Faith without certainty. Hope without proof. That’s the most honest kind.”

Host: The lights of the city shimmered below — rivers of red and gold, winding through a dark sea of unknowns. Jack’s reflection wavered in the glass, but his eyes were softer now, his voice lower.

Jack: “You know, I used to think luck was something you either had or didn’t. Now I wonder if luck’s just patience dressed in disguise.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You stay in the storm long enough, eventually the rain runs out of ways to hurt you.”

Jack: “And then?”

Jeeny: “Then you raise your hand again — and wait for your turn.”

Host: The jazz faded, replaced by the hush of rain easing into silence. The bartender wiped down the counter, the city breathing its midnight rhythm. Jack took his drink and clinked it softly against Jeeny’s mug.

Jack: “To luck, then.”

Jeeny: “To endurance — the only real luck that matters.”

Host: Outside, the storm cleared, revealing a faint moon between the clouds. The streetlights shimmered on puddles that mirrored the world upside down — the way failure often feels before it turns into wisdom.

The camera of the night pulled back, showing the two figures in quiet conversation amid the city’s restless glow.

And somewhere between their words and the whisper of rain, the truth unfolded like dawn:

Failure isn’t a wall — it’s the map.
Luck isn’t found — it’s earned by staying long enough to greet it.
And sometimes, the universe doesn’t choose the bold —
it chooses the ones who simply refuse to stop showing up.