And we did look around us, and indeed, everyone was doing it, spinning, turning and flipping. The dance floor was really heating up now, baby. It was dance with the crowd or go back and stand alone against the wall and watch as everyone else "does it."
What time it was. Skinny girls and fat girls, fat boys, skinny boys, the popular and unpopular all out there on the dance floor furiously exercising their constitutional right to pursue happiness. No child or adult, left behind.
Then, suddenly the lights came on and the music stopped. Someone hadn't paid the band. Our adoring partners, it seems, were really just con-artists. They never loved us at all. They had used us. And we let them. (Hell, we more than “let them.” We flopped on backs, threw our legs in the air and yelled, “come and get it. sailor!”)
Quite literally, they couldn't have done it without us.
So here we are, once again, alone, left to sort through flotsam of a relationship gone terribly wrong. One by one the homes are disappearing, the credit cards cancelled, the cars, boats and flat screen TVs, repossessed. In groups of thousands each week we rejoin the ranks of wall flowers at the American Dream Ball. Only this time with the bitterness that comes with having tasted the dream, only to have snatched away.
Meanwhile our abuser(s) beat us to court, extracting all kinds of sympathy from the system. Claiming they were earnest in their love for us, and that it was that very love and concern for us that led them to over-extend themselves in generosity. And, they tell the court – with straight faces – that they want nothing but the best for us and, with the court's help and indulgence now, they could be in a position again soon to once again extend us a loving, helping hand. To once again invite us to the dance.
It's a sad tale, indeed. But a tale that may feature as many accomplices as victims. Which were you?
Until you're sure, you might want to go easy on the “off with their heads” business.
What time it was. Skinny girls and fat girls, fat boys, skinny boys, the popular and unpopular all out there on the dance floor furiously exercising their constitutional right to pursue happiness. No child or adult, left behind.
Then, suddenly the lights came on and the music stopped. Someone hadn't paid the band. Our adoring partners, it seems, were really just con-artists. They never loved us at all. They had used us. And we let them. (Hell, we more than “let them.” We flopped on backs, threw our legs in the air and yelled, “come and get it. sailor!”)
Quite literally, they couldn't have done it without us.
So here we are, once again, alone, left to sort through flotsam of a relationship gone terribly wrong. One by one the homes are disappearing, the credit cards cancelled, the cars, boats and flat screen TVs, repossessed. In groups of thousands each week we rejoin the ranks of wall flowers at the American Dream Ball. Only this time with the bitterness that comes with having tasted the dream, only to have snatched away.
Meanwhile our abuser(s) beat us to court, extracting all kinds of sympathy from the system. Claiming they were earnest in their love for us, and that it was that very love and concern for us that led them to over-extend themselves in generosity. And, they tell the court – with straight faces – that they want nothing but the best for us and, with the court's help and indulgence now, they could be in a position again soon to once again extend us a loving, helping hand. To once again invite us to the dance.
It's a sad tale, indeed. But a tale that may feature as many accomplices as victims. Which were you?
Until you're sure, you might want to go easy on the “off with their heads” business.
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