There is a little girl inside of me, crying. I have skin tough like alligator, but I long to be soft, round, appreciated by my environment. Damn my Irish luck. Damn this tiny frame with tits that never fails to be underestimated. Uphill climbs become me and cause my already muscular body to harden even further.
The freedom of expression must be veiled by purpose that appeals to others.
It must be shrouded in a cohesive image or the idiot masses will never swallow it.
-GaGa- -puke- -whaaaaa-
They will just chew and chew until they are bored with you and then SPIT you onto a sidewalk. The delicacy of spoon-feeding them year after year wears on my soul; I wonder when they will awake from their stupors and state their opinions, or share something of their own. All the feeders can do is study consumer spending, track web hits, and throw the money around so that no one jerks them around.
I have no money. I never have. I have no muscle to throw around; I am barely over 100 pounds of mass. No one is afraid of me. They hire me because they want to fuck me and are always surprised that I am not a sexual deviant and that I am really good at what I do…the thing they hired me for. Always underestimated. The potential bookings and the backing-out flies at me like stacks of dinner plates…
“Oh! you might eat today! Ah…nah…they changed their minds.”
“Ah, you might pay your car insurance with this gig…ah…oh…something came up…ahh…I see…”
Do me a favor, get over yourself. Actions butterfly all around the world. When you act like an asshole today, someone cuts an old lady off on the highway next week, and I struggle still.
I struggle, still. Yes, but if you think I will drown on account of you, then you are mistaken. There will come a day when the levee breaks and the floodgates come crashing through town. I won’t stop to save you. I have my own alligator skin to swim with, fool.