The Bowels of Self-Pity.

I've spent a lot of my life thinking I'm not good enough.

You know what I'm saying?  You've felt that way a time or two before?

Well, I certainly have, so thanks for asking.

Summon the audible warp speed machinery, as we peer closely into a specific instance of cowardice, next to the bowels of self-pity, as I cry on your shoulder and you cry on mine, and we curse the world for making us feel this way about ourselves.

When someone told us that we weren't the best.  When we had to lay out a modicum of effort in the hopes of an already diminished (shrunken, pitiless, frigid, and shrink-wrapped) return, one who doesn't even talk back it is so thanked by us for having resurrected it from the pits of sewage-eating bacteria.

The bottom line is this: What if we could have everything we always wanted?  And the way to get it?  Through shutting the fuck up about it all the time and putting in the work.  What if that was the only thing separating us from our dreams, or happiness?  From fullness? Would we still find a crack to complain into, to fill with our pre-manufacted sob stories of meta-criticism?  Or would step up and be consistent for once in our weak little meaningless lives?

We'll see.