Aim for the top, they said. You want above the fray. You want to look down on those less than you. You want to be the boss. You want to be there. They point to the uppermost glass corner in unison. Get there and you’ll be a success.
I consider the glass prison of which they are so fond. I shuffle my feet in their battered Converse sneakers, fiddling with a tiny hole in my well-worn jeans. I watch the steady line of clones drift in and out of the revolving doors.
No thanks. I’d rather live.
I stick my hands in my pockets, turn on my heel and walk away whistling
Folsom Prison Blues.
Confession… I wrote this while a tad looped out on Benadryl, so… well… I just thought you should know.