In Theory
Slip on a pair of pressed khakis, the only brown thing you can love. A thrift store copy of the alphas you worship, who wear watches that can’t afford to tell time, bought with money earned wasting yours. Button up your white shirt, the one that brings out the desperate rage in your eyes to be loved. Sorry. Obeyed. So white it washes out your prized skin, its color not too dissimilar from prize winning pigs. On your way out, grab the tiki torch you got on sale. Light it with the rage of a four-year-old used to getting his way. As long as it burns, it will keep away mosquitoes and sexual partners. Fall in line with the mob, let it take your voice. Don’t stop to pick up even a penny’s worth of empathy or you’ll fall behind. March and march until there’s nothing left of you but a screaming maw feeding on empty promises, anger, and shit. But don’t worry. You’re not unique. You’re easily replaceable. In theory.
