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This time baby, I wish I had a tougher skin. Singing to myself, I realize how much damn easier it is to not try. If you don’t try, at least it was your fault it failed. At least this way I don’t put everything I’ve got into it and then watch it collapse when time or circumstances or someone else comes and smashes it all with a hammer. Bulletproof. It doesn’t matter what kind of armor or protection you wear, you go out into the world, you expose yourself. You walk around with a bulletproof vest, and someone slits your throat with a box cutter. You can’t see it all coming, so it’s easier to sit in your house and just wait for other people to invade it- at least that way, it wasn’t your fault. It was their damn fault for invading what you’ve got. You put yourself out there, you hope for the best, you sing as loud as you can, you put the depths of your soul in your voice, and they hate it. They tell you it’s shit, that more is necessary. You already put all of what you have out there- they’ve sucked it out, your blood, your tears. They’re making fucking cocktails out of it and sipping it, and then they say it needs more lime. Well dammit, I don’t have lime. Is it weird that I seem to be both myself and you at the same time? Maybe it’s easier to think about it when I’m not really talking about myself. It’s still easier not to make the cocktails in the first place. They don’t know whether the fruit of yourself is sweet or not until they try it, before that scary moment when they take a sip. And maybe that risk is worth it, if they take a sip and they find it’s delicious. But is being found delicious worth the risk of being found repellent? Hell, not even repellent. There’s not a big chance of that. What if they just find it adequate, but they like someone else’ cocktail better? And it’s not really their problem. They get to just sit around, sipping their cocktails, judging you without having to really know what happens to you. They can say all the horrible things they want about you, know that you’re going to hear them, but not know what it does to you inside, to know that someone else is better than you. They don’t have to see your pain- and really, it couldn’t be any other way. How else could they make an objective judgment? Everyone who submits their cocktail in this contest is a sympathetic character; if they based it on that, even if they decided based on whose story was most sympathetic, they might end up with the worst-tasting drink. So they sit around, sucking down bloody cocktails, laughing about the latest episode of whatever the hell they watch, sucking down the lives of those they judge with every sip.

But that’s really all life is- the vital fluids drain and drain with all your efforts over time, and you die sucked dry. Or maybe your throat gets slit with a box cutter and all your blood and vitality- everything you are- pours out your neck, gushing onto the pavement, splashing horribly in a hot, crimson tide. Bulletproof, huh? Maybe you should’ve spent some more of that blood on some better task. You clearly didn’t use up all of it. What was the point of slacking off, being lazy? Your life swirls into the gutter whether you pour it into song, into your work, or into the street when someone cuts you up. There are better things to do than throw vitriol at people you don’t care about anyway. There are better things to do than worrying about punctuality. There are better things to do than dwell on the things that didn’t work out. You can do so much better than this. You don’t need to lay in a beef stew when you hate beef stew. You can swim to the edge, maybe use a potato as a raft, build a tower of carrots and get out by climbing up. You don’t have to stay where you don’t want to be. And with that, you can rip off the stupid Kevlar and leave it in the stew. Watch it sink, for nostalgia’s sake, then turn around and see what the rest of the kitchen looks like. Maybe you need some limes…

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One Comment

  1. This is amazing, and seems to ascribe what artisty types have been moaning on about for years to everybody, for everybody. I love you sugar, and this was expertly written.


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