Cockroaches are adaptive and resilient because of evolutionary biology and because they are not prideful. Every minuscule drop of pride we possess and enable to fester within holds us back by a year. We'd already checkoff that last box on the chores list, allow for grace after a disastrous first impression, publish a work after a bad workshop, strengthen our friends list outside of a Wi-Fi connection, recover the ashes from the bridge of one of many lost contacts and spin them into a force stronger than a gas giant's gravitational pull, and close every deficit of regret for the last word said before we knew it would be the last if we all held back an 'I told you so' every once and a while. Unfortunately no amount of progress is better than how schadenfreude feels. Today my mirror will point several fingers and I won't like at who. Later my pen will spill an apology for the cops who will hand it over to a judge who will then break his gavel faster than the jury can think of ways to escape their civic duty. Tomorrow upon midnight's first tick, the executioner's axe will have already grown potbellied—drunk on my blood and hypocrisy.
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