You crushed my foot. You did it on purpose. I’m still pissed.
I’ve tried to be an adult about this, to see this from your vantage. You were born into spoils. You were scouted and placed on a pedestal at too early an age. Bought for a tidy sum, more than any insurance company would policy for a dying uncle. You have a hired hand for your penis.
You spend your days under the ass of a former Playboy model, roaming exquisitely manicured Kansas plains. You have nothing to do but listen to the hum of a hundred-degree sun. And be occasionally gently water-misted, by the perfect coffee pectorals of a classically handsome man in his forties.
(Who, every day, would melody the fables of his lost youth—to you or the grass or me. When he would loll along the sands of the gulf and wait for the rich Europeans to roll off their boats into his bed. Stringing together a self-reported legendary run. Only to retire far too soon, as alas, every athlete must leave the game. To follow a rich divorcee back onto her yacht. And end up housed in a tiny changing room in a stable of horses. One member of which is you.)
Most of your time is invested in a lazy shamble from shade to shade. Taking to maw only bioengineered golden grain. Jettisoning reverse geysers of urine at the earth and dumping ungodly loads wherever, whenever, too close to whomever you please.
I can see how you crushing my foot might not be such a big deal for you. I can see how you might not even remember. But I do. (Continued )