The truth is no one knows. For all the clamoring and falling over one another, we aren’t sure, we don’t know, can’t be certain, undecided, indifferent… We don’t know what we want. We don’t know what is possible. We’re unhappy.

We achieve? We gain? You finally obtain that goal? Got enough money, married the guy with money, or the guy for his mind, or the girl for her tits, or didn’t for all those one night stands, or even choose him/her so you could specifically fool around. 3 days later your bored. no longer satisfied. We don’t really want to be happy, we enjoy the quick fix. We look down on that heroin addict, we gnash our righteous teeth at him and push our secretly promiscuous thirteen old daughters behind us as if to shield them from some communicable disease of living, only because we see our own sick, sweaty, wanting faces peering needily, futilely, and desperately staring back at us. We hate that reflection of resonance.

Do we embrace this? Sure we do. Half of us that even protest do so with so little conviction we fall right over if pushed. China sent tanks to mercilessly run down it’s insurgents, we can just ignore ours, we can nudge them into quiet. That half of us, just wants to look good all day.

Knowing our own insatiable habit, we still want more. one by one, little by little, a sorrow few of us gain our goals in completion, in finality. With nothing left to gain or garner we set about destroying it fast and  or slow, we set to the real addictions of drinks lined with guilt and sex, with fixes that have a passed “best by” date and a skin of leavings on top.

We don’t care because we care so much. We hear so much and listen so very little. We smile and help while we’re turning our heads. We let them go out the backdoor on all fours while we shield them from the truth out front. Selling our own blood because interaction is such a hefty bill, a real look in the eyes  makes us honest, and honest won’t make this fucking itch subside. We keep applying the prescription of money, but the rash is still on the rise, our modern snake oil has failed us again.

So here we are. We want it all for doing nothing and so no one is king. The most mediocre is fame. Nothing is to die, to gain is to kill oneself, and to do just enough to get by is royalty. If your anything else, but here, then you’re not even real.

So I’m just the jerkoff guessing your weight, making you pay in time for information you already know but hate to hear out loud.