the dirt

When you are married, as I, whether you want to or not you must consider the possibility of children. So why oh why would I have a child of my own, and not adopt one of the scads who have no home? So I can strut around with a mini-me, proclaiming loudly, "Look ye well upon the masterpiece I have wrought!" So I can love a little, fail a lot and eventually be exceeded? To spread the air and grain a little thinner?

Oh, wait. Here's a secret, kept by capitalists and marxists and economists and it'll get you pissed: there's no shortage - none at all. Just the ridiculous extravagences of the few. Who knew? Those idle rich, like tyranical monkeys scratching a rectal itch and defecating on a third world heap, are what ensures "the poor will always be with us".

Here's a dirtier secret: it's me. I am he who takes more than my daily bread to get ahead of everybody I can. And "man, it isn't my problem" I say. Nor my fault, 'cause what I was taught is more important than what I ought to do. And you are just the same, with excuses just as lame.

So let's agree to be what we are, red-hot perpetrators of a life of self, of dirt, of death. Let's scream it and mean it because there ain't a bigger waste than a life you don't really mean.