what they’ll tell you

They’ll tell you that your music taste is weird.

They’ll tell you that your jokes aren’t funny and you shouldn’t try comedy.

They’ll tell you that you’re studying the wrong thing, it’s not going to make you any money, and you should just quit now.

They’ll tell you that you should drink your coffee with cream and sugar like everybody else. Or, better yet, drink tea instead.

They’ll tell you that you can’t do everything alone (but they won’t offer to help).

They’ll tell you to keep your head up and smile because society should listen better.

They’ll tell you society won’t listen better.

They’ll make up all sorts of excuses for why they couldn’t come to your birthday party, to your wedding, to your baby shower.

They’ll tell your grave they liked you well enough.

They’ll tell you that every decision you made up until they stepped in was awful — the pits— and then take credit for your uprising.

They’ll beat books over your head.

They’ll undermine your intelligence but take your ideas.

They’ll dismiss the beautiful as strange and never understand the sense of awe that life brings.

They’ll take your sweatshirt and complain about being hot while you freeze over.

They’ll burn bridges and beg for you to rebuild it, because, well, you lit the match. They saw you do it.


Enough about them. What will you do?

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