The Payback
Numbers. The measure of quality for your school papers, the quantity of your lovers, but ever most importantly: the dollars that are your worth in the marketplace, the social space. Numbers are everything you are. They are the measure of our intelligence, our sluttiness, our ambitiousness, our usefulness. If you could buy them in a jar, we would be overrun with the empty vials. We'd build our houses out of the vials. Such as the contents are used to build our egos.
The number of years crawl over me. They started slow, moving with determination over the curve of my skull, then steadily across the flatline of my forehead, though even now, they rush down and up like a rollercoaster over the hills and valleys of the rest of my visage. I don't know what day it is, what stage it is in the trajectory of wherever all these years are going. I just know that I am accumulating numbers of something. Something that is meant to be very important.
Six figures. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Its a marker frequently spoken about in the young set, the head set, the money set. Do I belong here? My bipolar diagnosis pulls at me in the usual dichotomous manner. A non-Catholic, an almost Catholic, a not-even-close Catholic, I am ever so familiar with the concept of guilt. The unknowing uncaring body prefers sex to six, while the cerebrum chastizes. Be grateful, you lazy bastard. I got you here and you better fucking love it.
The number of years crawl over me. They started slow, moving with determination over the curve of my skull, then steadily across the flatline of my forehead, though even now, they rush down and up like a rollercoaster over the hills and valleys of the rest of my visage. I don't know what day it is, what stage it is in the trajectory of wherever all these years are going. I just know that I am accumulating numbers of something. Something that is meant to be very important.
Six figures. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Its a marker frequently spoken about in the young set, the head set, the money set. Do I belong here? My bipolar diagnosis pulls at me in the usual dichotomous manner. A non-Catholic, an almost Catholic, a not-even-close Catholic, I am ever so familiar with the concept of guilt. The unknowing uncaring body prefers sex to six, while the cerebrum chastizes. Be grateful, you lazy bastard. I got you here and you better fucking love it.
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