I ask you, how's life
A question we all are wired to answer somewhat similarly to people we meet once in six weeks: all good, what about you
But because I am a friend, or so I assume your your apparent perceptions of me are
You tell me over a night and two bottles of whiskey, how life's not fair, how life's fucked you over
Life's not fucked you over
Your ideas of what life would be like, have fucked over your actualities of what life is
Your pre-conceived notions and your hopeful overambitious optimism have fucked you over
The weight of the obese expectations of your dead parents and their dead parents have fucked you over
The fact that you were supposed to live life and yet all you've managed to do is live it in defined moments mapped to checkboxes like you were shopping life off a fucking grocery list, has fucked you over
But then, I don't tell you any of it
Because, no whiskey in this world is smooth enough to ease gulping down a truth tablet
Especially when your truth is on the pole opposite mine
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