There they are; I want in

They say hate directed outward is simply a mirror reflecting back at you. I say it's jealousy of the misdirected kind.

There they are, lining up in scads to order bacon double ranch crunchy cheese taco burgers with sides of cottage cheese curds injected directly into thighs and buttocks. There they are sinking into preformed imprints of those dimpled glutei maximi in front of televisions equal in worth to one and a half month's rent in their squalid apartments and blaring inane content aimed at dulling the mind and suggesting more purchases, more stuff, more distraction. There they are killing time and brain cells sitting in groups, their numbers like armor, yelling obscenities sporadically intermingling with ninth grade reading level rhetoric. There they are conning their scrawny boyfriends into believing they've faithfully taken the pill. There they are, popping out child after doomed child, pulling them down the sidewalk, ass cheeks peeking from the taut and distressed waistband of a second hand pair of Victoria's Secret PINK sweatpants. There they are, making hats from found materials and planning masquerades. There they are, texting dad for some cash to cover the rent. There they are, composing oversimplified pop songs with nonsensical lyrics for shits and giggles. There they are, mounting absurdist plays and missing the meanings and subcontexts. There they are, their heads buried in fantasy novels. There they are, burning midnight oil at sorporate headquarters, wife and kids home alone again. There they are, donning fads and trends and too high shoes dancing and snorting the nights away in fashion heaven. There they are, sticking needles in their knuckles. There they are, sipping beers like it's water. There they are, judging me. There they are, thoughts on low speed. There they are, I wish they were me.

Maybe it's me wanting to eat anything without guilty thoughts of fat and calories. Maybe it's me, and I'd like to watch endless hours of Real Housewives and Top Model and Kardashians without wondering what other important tasks I could be accomplishing. Maybe it's me not wanting to care about public decorum. Maybe it's me wanting to make mischief and use my imagination. Maybe it's me wanting to write a song in an hour. Maybe it's me wishing I had a financial safety net, sick of feeling beholden to the dollar. Maybe it's me wishing I loved something more than myself and could dedicate my service selflessly. Maybe it's me wishing I could afford and looked good in Isabel Marant and Bottega Veneta. Maybe it's me wishing I had a glamour. Maybe it's me wishing I could live in cars and buck the trend and not care about your opinion. Maybe it's me, judging me. Maybe it's me, thoughts on high speed. Maybe it's me, wishing I could be anything but me.

We called it the true meaning of "ignorance is bliss." Those people for whom these thoughts never appeared. The people who didn't let the weight of decision and definition and deciding what's real crush their ability to feel light, to feel happy, to feel boundless, to feel hope. It's not ignorance in the erudite sense. It's ignorance in the sense of  freedom from the knowledge of anxiety and thoughts in circles and wondering if bliss and lightness will ever come.

Is it a decision? If so, that's kind of cheap. That's a little bit unimportant or flippant or something, don't you think? Could it be that easy?

Come see me play a show tonight. I swear it'll be depressing.