Somebody Finally Tells Chesty

Hey, Chesty Deigndoun, sometime—sometime why don’t you just—get out of your insidious I, I, I; your primping, pouting me, me, me, me drama; your profane my, my, my orgasm; our salacious mine, mine, mine plundering. Get out of yourself, Chesty, and look up at the sun, and know it is not a glowing light bulb, floating overhead to light Chesty’s mornings with a pleasant touch for a tan on the beach. Look up on some clear night at those stars and know each is not a speck that serves to impressionistic the sky with mottling made especially for Chesty’s gazing pleasure. Nor are you at its center, nor are you its purpose. Know that you would not exist if this did not, but that it was not created and does not exist to make Chesty Deigndoun. Look up, Chesty, and know you are but the atom of a speck of a micronothing of an oops that occasionally occurs in a chaos. Look up and know that at any moment there are unnumbered oopses occurring in this chaos any of which could erase Chesty’s micro-oops” to a zilch.

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