July 7, 2012

How the One Percent Stole My Love.

I lost my man to the one percent.

Tonight, I am drinking.

I am drinking organic apple cider.

I am a woman grieving blind arrogance of a man, in the middle of the universe.

I don’t know whether I will win this war, or whether I already lost it. I have me a rope to heaven and an ocean of colorful smiles around me. And he…he simply believes that he needs to save his face.

What does it boil down to? Money? Courage?

They say modern history is written by a small group of shameless, powerful psychopaths who like to play God. They say the proverbial one percent toys with national economies for profit and manipulates millions of infantilized adults through forced education and forged arts.

It’s probably true. I hear the music people in my hood listen to. The fact that it exists cannot be explained by unassisted bad taste.

If this is indeed true…here goes the story of my love.

Once upon a time I met the best man on Earth. A successful man.

Then the economy pulled the rug from under his feet, and with that went his dignity, confidence and courage.

The ruling elite are smart cookies: They’ve managed to firmly ingrain in every man’s brain, no matter how bright, that the organ responsible for his dignity is his checking account.

Nobody wants to feel little…

I can type a novel dedicated to shifts in paradigms and socioeconomic factors at play, but what does it matter? He is not here. It’s a national holiday—again—and he is not here because he temporarily forgot how to love.

I am sad. I am drunk on apple cider and I am heartbroken because I lost my man to the one percent.

One day he will be good again. Good things always come back. But if he doesn’t fix what he broke with me, the Rockefellers of the world have won my battle, and this time it’s personal.

© Tessa Makes Love 2012


Editor: Brianna Bemel

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