You only live once. YOLO. Ready-made, plastic-wrap expression we use to justify buying that extra pair of jeans we’ve no need for, and that second slice of cake we know we shouldn’t. Shouldn’t want or need? Who’s to say what’s safe, and why don’t we ever YOLO more meaningful shit?
You only get one life, yet you spend years trapped in banal, empty chitchats. Howdyoudo’s and howsthewife. Fuck the wife, maybe they got divorced, and anyway, who cares? I know I don’t. I reckon, if I cared enough, I’d know how they did, or how the wife was, so best not to ask.
Stuck attending events we feel we should. Weddings so they feel obligated to come to ours, ‘cause god forbid we look like friendless, miserable old fucks. Doing boring jobs, or listening to people we can’t in honesty stand, because see above.
People rarely YOLO that trip to Kyoto they’ve been dreaming about since they were 16, but sure, a second slice o’ cake is a decent consolation prize.
I wish I could YOLO all the things that keep me from flying to the moon on the wings of a second, then fly me back at the gate of dawn, before the day-sun gets late and hot, and demanding. I wish, but wishing isn’t gonna be enough this time around, so let’s do something about it. I say, mirror words for a parrot world.
I only get one? Says who? You? You don’t look like you know where the nearest convenience store is, why should I trust you on the great beyond? Good, ‘cause I don’t.
It’s plain. Empty. Plasticky. So, so dull. Pretending to be the people we’re not. Saying things like ‘I haven’t seen you in years. You haven’t changed’, and agreeing to love those we’ve already forgot. It’s terrifying, ‘cause maybe you really didn’t change, and here you are now, years older, yet pretending to be the same.
Except I don’t want that anymore. I wanna pretend to be myself for a second. Not a lot, we don’t get a lot, remember? Only one. Life. And that can’t be too much, if it fits in the span of people blinking.
I’m bored, but I can’t remember how to get unbored. Everything’s repetition,
a mirage,
a facade of what we thought our lives would be. I don’t wanna be told I look good in these pants. Fuck these pants, and fuck you for complimenting me. Fuck me for being bored. I’m tired of people who read in a magazine how their life should be, and considered that worthy advice. I don’t think anyone ever told me.
Or maybe they taught me wrong, or dropped me on the head, when they were supposed to be teaching me how to say things appropriately.
I don’t tell people they look good in pants, or that we should keep in touch, because I don’t wanna. I’m afraid, so fucking afraid of what lies at the end of the road, but more, I’m afraid I’ll fuck it up. I was never good under pressure. You know, when all the other kids ahead of you had jumped, and it was your turn? And the PE teacher looked at you all leering, and weird? I never made the cut, and I’m worried that’s gonna happen in life. That Imma wake up in the afterworld one day, and find St. Peter leering down at me, unimpressed. I don’t think God wastes his time leering, do you? Well, what do you know?
I don’t wanna mess up. I don’t wanna waste my time talking about the weather, or about where you’re going on holiday to escape from your otherwise miserable life. And it’s not ‘cause I hate you, and it’s not ‘cause I’m mean (I don’t think).
It’s just, it’s so damn hard, already, trying to make sure my life doesn’t end up petty and miserable that I cant bear yours. I tried, but my back gave way, and the chiropractor-whos-not-an-actor says I should be more careful. That’s a lie. I don’t do doctors. They tell you you’re gonna die, too, but worse, they sell you this lie that if you check x,y, and z off your list, you might just live forever.
Do you want to live forever? It’s stupid, I know. What would you do? We’d get bored of each other, and we’d start fucking the robots, or have the robots put on ultra-realistic human masks, and start screwing us.
