Aren't I a saint? Aren't I an alchemist? For converting bullshit into pretty packages... Sealing bullshit filled envelopes with a decorative closure... It even matches my outfit. Aren't I nice? Aren't I neat? Aren't I a well-trained negro, to be so tall? My jacket is so well tailored, you barely notice the lump swelling beneath my left lapel.
Enter: Example after example
Enter: The right time for all the wrong things to happen
Even the finest paper dissolves quickly in alcohol. The beautiful, ordinate seals can not contain the bullshit locked within. What happened to nice? What happened to neat? My mouth is neither. My arms won't stop flailing. My beautiful jacket is ruined! And, I don't care. It's covered in smelly, age-old bullshit. And, I don't care. You need to know. They need to know. I need to know.
My pockets are bursting open for the world to see. Here I am, in my Sunday's best, vomiting in public. It needs to go... All of it... Get out of my body... Get out of my face...
In retrospect, I would've reconsidered my filing system; if I had known it would explode at a later date. All of it at once. I would not have tucked my anger away in neat places. I would not swept my emotions under a rug so expensive. Now, I have a mess to clean up.
I've learned that even the abyss can fill to its brim.... Even an European-tailored jacket can tear at it seams. Even the most beautiful, most extravagant seals have their limits. Shit. I thought I had finesse. I thought I was professional. It turns out, I'm a person, too... Shit.