Funny thing

The funny thing about thinking you know someone is that sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you find out they’ve been smiling in your face all along, for years even, while likely calling you names behind your back and thinking there’s something sick about you. Maybe, in that childish way, they’ve been sticking their tongue out at you, too. Making fun; thinking you’re pathetic, when in reality it’s they who are the pathetic ones.

It’s impossible to please everyone. Lincoln’s adage works here as well, substituting “please all the people” etc. for “fool all the people.” Problem is, when you think you know someone and you think that someone has your back — not to stab it; to protect it — and you then find out that person would probably rather stab you if there weren’t so many laws and repercussions and punishments, that’s gotta hurt.

See, I’d much rather you call me faggot to my face than smile all nicey and pretend you actually genuinely care about me. At least that way I know what I’m dealing with: you’re being straightforward; you’re being straight with me. Pun, yes.

Strangers, yeah, strangers will always hurl insults. I’ve heard them all my adult life. Who cares? Who needs those people? Who isn’t able to let them stew in their own stink?

When it’s a relative, one you grew up with, one you thought you knew and could trust, one you loved at one time … I can’t even find the words for that, and to let that someone stew in their own stink, that’s also gotta hurt.

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