Fuck.
Fuck. I refuse
to let go of ice cream
and senseless cholestrol
and sprawling on the floor all punch-drunk like
i’ve taken one hit too many.
You can’t have my time or my soul,
but you can employ it, and sell it back to me
while I’m leasing it for money. Damn. But
I want my Saturday morning cartoons and my
stupid princess fairy Harry Potter dreams,
and my tooth fairy Santa Clause Easter Bunny
blues.
I want my special birthdays and my concessions
and my potential, I want it all. Even the screaming
and kicking Piano lessons and the dull Chinese School
classes and the angry parents and crying crying.
I want them, but I’m trading them in for some car keys
and the green leather paper that fits snuggly into a wallet
and fits even more snuggly into the hand of a cashier when I blow it on coffee,
that I swear I need. I’m trading them in for specialisation, for forgetting,
for snobbery and tomfoolery, for sex drugs and rock and roll, for vegetarian meals
and garden salads. In return I get aged parents whose lives I constantly fear for,
dreams that have since then vanquished themselves.
In return I get fearful thoughts of mortality, and memory problems.
In return I get white hair.
I don’t know if I saw this on an infomercial, or some other shit, but quite frankly, I think I got ripped off.
