I'm going to be blunt.
You're a jerk.
I know the excuse.
“I'm just following orders”
Yeah, well, I still blame you.
Remember all those times I knocked you off the table.
Completely intentional.
The only reason I pick you up again is so that I can hate you the next morning.
Things I'm told to do are things that I don't want to do.
And I am told to do them constantly.
And when I sleep, I forget them.
And then you show up.
Kicking my existential experiences in the face.
I wish I could compare you to the end of a song.
To the beauty of inevitability.
Of the end.
But you, good sir, are the streaker
wearing cymbals for shoes
running through the orchestra
stopping at my seat,
slapping me in the face
and having the audacity to tell me
that I have better things to do.
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