It’s hard to stay sated.
Lumbered and thorough, your life on the edge of a broken wheel, tumbling with fucking hamster like zeal and grasping at the edges and hoping your eyes don’t stray from the dollars and cents of satisfaction. One side step, and that whole edifice spills, your feet snap downwards as if you’re Indiana Jones attempting to cross a fucking rank, decrepit bridge that someone like that old train-snake-sneak-crotch-toucher would have hidden under as a child.
You can eat, but you’re never full. Never full of life and love, never full of talent, never full of vice and the constantly evolving dice rolls of relationships with your fellow hamsters. You’re just on that wheel, eyes forward, heads down, hustling for all your worth and hoping to not step on others truths as you do so.
But, shit, this presumes you have morals. It presumes that your resume is one of valor and noble Paladinic pride. Assumes that you’re like some glorified gift to humanity, without a skerrick of doubt, sadness, guile or just sheer cunty badness of heart – because you’ve never done that, have you? Ripped off a friend, cheated a lover, lied to your brother or stolen from your mother – coz you’re a hamster, right? Running rings around whoever brings you joy and hope and pleasure along with a little grope of sex-staunched rope to hang around your wondrous pride.
You’re fucking Indiana Hamster! Look at you go! Look at how you wade through the social race with all the bonafide fucking grace of a pair of anacondas fucking underwater, rolling in the mud and muck of some Amazonian stream stuck in endless cycles of flood and plain, at every coil and thrust of whatever the fuck snakes use for cock and cunt, visiting pleasure-pain releases beneath the sordid filth of fluid and vegetative matter. Where is all your work-life balance amongst the torrents of such fun filled dilemmas? You fucking think you’re free! But the cage is so simple that it holds you in check without you even realising that your neck is well and truly in the noose – and you can’t recognise it for what it is. Can’t see it for how it holds you. Can’t untie yourself or even slash your wrists to provide the necessary lubrication to decide on if you want to stand on your own two feet and
Just. Fucking. Go. For. It.
This is where they come in. Your friends, family, lovers, haters, all those dick eating rollers and trollers – you’re nowhere near full, and they’re just sitting there, satisfied, not looking inwards to your life, judging you by whatever hope and strife you wade through, like you’re some kind of endless Korean drama – oh look out! There’s a villain, there’s the murder, there’s the threesome triangle lover and the weird fucked up mother who hides her secrets til screening time. They feed off you and eat every ounce of flesh from your personality, sucking on the marrow of any tragedy that falls.
By the time you stop running, little hamster, you won’t feel like sitting in repose, sunning yourself a little, waiting for each presumable chapter to close. You’re not a book. You’re not a drama. You’re not some hackneyed little fucking farmer for the sheriff to take advantage of – but don’t worry, coz they’re all watching. Waiting for you to fall to pick up you up or kick your butt or just sit back and laugh. They’re all waiting for those moments, though none will admit, when you’re just a distracted piece of satisfaction. A minor villain, an epic fail. A greater hero, an epic tale.
You’ll never be full. You’ll never step away from the wheel of the real until you really, truly, step outside that constant dictum –
and stop playing yourself for a fucking victim.