This post is about you. You. That’s right, I know you.

I think I know you.
I think you know you.

Yes you know. You.
But you are the master of denial, so maybe you don’t even know this is about you.

As Carly Simon said.
You probably don’t know this blog is about you.

Hell you are fucking vain.
That is your downfall.
That insidious and disabling vanity.
Rub out the vanity; pour in an extra dose of Humility and Good Sense and you might actually be a worthwhile human being.

You see, this ties in. The other day, I posted about something. Similar. It was my shit post, the one where I mentioned shit about 50 times and defended my lackadaisical and unproductive 21st century lifestyle.

Your vanity and unbridled ambition. They really do nothing but disgrace the shambles of humanity you cart around under the pretense of quality…when in fact, you’re trash.
You wallow in the murky depths.
You see, you have all the trappings of a person of honor and respect and intellect.
But you left your proud legacy unlocked in the rain on the back porch; you shuffle into the the castle’s lazy and dry warmth and care not that you’ve left the prized soulful possessions sitting outside in the elements because you are fixated with the comfort.

You’ve been given the map to the high road…but you take the low.

Your vanity has no space. It does not allow room.
In that psyche.
Your ego bulges out the doorways.
There is room for naught.

Your ego, blossomed how, or where, who knows. Who cares. All that matters is that your ego is the stray and hungry dog we must deal with. Your ego and vanity trample upon all good sense and gestures of decency.

Your ego eschews equality and challenge.
It is fragile, like a precious and antique museum piece. It cannot be touched or photographed. So delicate.

Surrounded by mindless sycophants, propelled by their blind obedience and moronic nonthreateningness, you welcome them further and entreat them to blossom under your fluttering wings.

Faced. In the face, with persistent doubt and logic, your righteousness flares.
So contained (and isolated) is your psyche, cloistered behind a temporal wall of habit and routine, that your thoughts, your beliefs, rendered deaf, mute behind the static social fabric you weave around the stage where you can bask in self-immolated glare.

You are the star. Your daddy told you so.
And the physical laws of the universe must change to make it so.