Hey you. I’m down here. It’s me, Gravity. Forgot I was still here, didn’t you?
I’m usually not one to interrupt. Thing is, I’ve been feeling a bit under-appreciated for, I don’t know, several billion years now. Honestly, it wears on a fella’ after while when a bearded man in the clouds gets so much praise for a batting average that can’t begin to compare to his own. Sure, I may not pull fancy parlor tricks, like the harebrained burning bush ventriloquist act, or shoving one side of a sea into one corner, and the other side into another. I helped-out on that whole Dead Sea thing, by the way.
As for me? All I do is hold shit down. Every stinkin’ think you can think of, I’m holding down right now. Always have been. Every time you get in the car, drive to the grocery store and purchase a bundt cake, I’m the one who holds down the car as you drive, holds down the store as you shop, and holds down the bundt cake as you gorge. Furthermore, I hold YOU down. I deserve a thank-you, at the very least. And don’t give me any shit about your weight. Blame the bundt cake.
I’m consistent too. In fact, I’m the one batting 1,000 percent. Obviously much better than ol’ Big-Beard up there. I’ve heard how many times you’ve prayed to him for your boyfriend to come back after leaving you for the slimmer chick in accounts receivable. Have you gotten a single response to any of your zillions of pathetic, blubbering text messages? And once the denial wears-off, don’t rationalize it by saying, “God wouldn’t put me through something I couldn’t handle.” Tell that nonsense to the orphan in the burn unit. But if your ex does come back by some miracle, it’s only because he’s not careening toward the cosmos like a pea in a tornado. Sorry, I may have gotten a little carried away there. But hey, at least you haven’t.
Seriously though, I can’t promise that I won’t just say the heck with it one day, and leave you all hanging…upside down…forever…assuming you’re lucky enough to grab something bolted down when Mt. Turd-Pile hits the super-mega industrial fan. Maybe then you’ll finally consider me. Maybe then you’ll wish you would’ve thanked me for every moment I’ve allowed you to look up toward the heavens, instead of rocket into them.
I’m usually not one to interrupt. Thing is, I’ve been feeling a bit under-appreciated for, I don’t know, several billion years now. Honestly, it wears on a fella’ after while when a bearded man in the clouds gets so much praise for a batting average that can’t begin to compare to his own. Sure, I may not pull fancy parlor tricks, like the harebrained burning bush ventriloquist act, or shoving one side of a sea into one corner, and the other side into another. I helped-out on that whole Dead Sea thing, by the way.
As for me? All I do is hold shit down. Every stinkin’ think you can think of, I’m holding down right now. Always have been. Every time you get in the car, drive to the grocery store and purchase a bundt cake, I’m the one who holds down the car as you drive, holds down the store as you shop, and holds down the bundt cake as you gorge. Furthermore, I hold YOU down. I deserve a thank-you, at the very least. And don’t give me any shit about your weight. Blame the bundt cake.
I’m consistent too. In fact, I’m the one batting 1,000 percent. Obviously much better than ol’ Big-Beard up there. I’ve heard how many times you’ve prayed to him for your boyfriend to come back after leaving you for the slimmer chick in accounts receivable. Have you gotten a single response to any of your zillions of pathetic, blubbering text messages? And once the denial wears-off, don’t rationalize it by saying, “God wouldn’t put me through something I couldn’t handle.” Tell that nonsense to the orphan in the burn unit. But if your ex does come back by some miracle, it’s only because he’s not careening toward the cosmos like a pea in a tornado. Sorry, I may have gotten a little carried away there. But hey, at least you haven’t.
Seriously though, I can’t promise that I won’t just say the heck with it one day, and leave you all hanging…upside down…forever…assuming you’re lucky enough to grab something bolted down when Mt. Turd-Pile hits the super-mega industrial fan. Maybe then you’ll finally consider me. Maybe then you’ll wish you would’ve thanked me for every moment I’ve allowed you to look up toward the heavens, instead of rocket into them.
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