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Who's the PIG? ... March 10, 2006
this is the moment when all this stupid shit all comes to a flaming, throat wrenching mind twisting pimple head. this is how you feel when your lover snubbs you because, thanks to his accademic achievements, those accolades handed out by some mindless and secretly sneering captian of the educational system, he's suddenly got himself a big, bloated self image to nurse. he's got to become upper class, he tells himself, and you, you are just middle class. you are not good enough. you are the equivalent of every farm boy's first lover. you might as well be a pig. go ahead, start oinking. it would certainly suit everyone much better if you did. we could all feel much better if you'd start acting your part.
well.
you've heard this story before, of course. you're so used it that you've already figured out how to start oinking and still keep your image of personal dignity. you make up some stories about what you're going to do now. here we go. you say you're glad to be free, because you simply CAN'T imagine how you'd be able to pull all this off what with having a lover in tow and all.
you bow out, gracefully oinking, and all the time thinking, fuck you, too.
go find your damned perfect woman. ha, like she exists. you curse his name. you say to yourself, and i thought you were different. i thought you said you were above all that stupid shit. but you weren't. you're saying all this to yourself because you don't think you even owe him the chance to possibly learn something from your remonstrances.
there he goes to join the upper classes and snoot hordes of people like you. he'll sit up there in his little mansion and think he has the right of way to trod over the likes of you. doesn't it feel great to get stepped over so many times? it's a wonder you haven't gone mad, pig. it really is a wonder.
and i wonder, in ten years time, when he's sitting in his corner office, repressed and unhappy and perfectly secure in his little managerial world, if he'll still have fleeting fantasies that he needs to "stick it to the man"
and yet another part of me, still deeper and no longer sneering, simply wants to fall down and weep at such a failure of an image. from what could have been to what might really be...from the glimpse of a passionate and fierce spirit i was once privey to transmuted into this pitiful corner office occupant still occasionally jerking himself off with thoughts of rebellion and individuality.
I suppose i'm in the wrong for caring about a person who does not care about me. What i think does not matter. What a pig thinks of the farmer does not matter. The pig still goes to market.
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