Suck

Let us give thanks
for our self-consciousness
that keeps us from being guided
by pride or vanity or longing,
heaven forbid,
since such things are embarrassing,
distasteful, and deeply uncool.
For second-guessing ourselves
and others
is the rainbow on our cloudy day
and the pot of fool's gold
at the end of the tunnel
of mixed metaphors.
"She wasn't right for you anyway,"
we tell each other,
wondering who in the world
would be right for our curmudgeonly,
unlovable friends,
assuming, without a spec of proof,
that our story has
a much happier ending.

Let us give thanks
for all our sweet delusions
that shield us from the harsh realities
of our pathetic little lives.
Let us give thanks for denial,
ignorance, and most of all,
the guise of self-awareness
we reveal
with an overdramatic flourish,
for these are the tricks
with smoke and mirrors
that woo our audiences for a while,
at least until they get bored
and go home,
and then we're left feeling
sort of foolish.
Like self-serious actors,
we pretend to see our shortcomings,
but all we see are quirks we fancy cute,
like a poorly drawn
Meg Ryan character
in a pointless romantic comedy.
We bat our eyes and quip,
"Sure, I screw up sometimes,
but I'm a lactose-intolerant Aquarius.
I wear bright red cowboy boots!
I have a juicer!
Look how adorable I am
when I sneeze!"

Next ... Hope drives a stick.