a pastoral

You were pitted against yourself.  You wanted a new wardrobe, but you knew, too, that you did not.  How?  As nothing came to pass, you laughed at your follies.  You rejoiced in your moments of bravery and success, and played coddling mother to your failures, licked one or two.  Now you imagine that you are simply diseased or dysfunctional, but it isn’t so.  You know you are in control, and you know that the sacrifice of your ego is likely to yield that ‘ultimate’ benefit you have been taught of.  Now, realizing the disgusting melodramatic bile nigh -your parents were right, you’re a pussy- you turn to some hint of the old god.  The mashed potato god with, god don’t recall that “Double the butter!”.

You were pitted against your coding.  Who can say what else, if not after you cease to write about yourself in the second person?  All of those whom you love.

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