Possessed You Are

Your fucking neighbors own you.

They can phone the cops. Complain your lawn’s too long. Those motherfuckers own you.

The city owns your house. Ya, you think it’s paid off and you’re not a renter but ya, you are and if you didn’t have to anti up for your humble abode when you’re not at home… WINNER WINNER CHICKEN DINNER! And communism.

But what the fuck?!

Why do we let property own us? Because we want to be owned. Owning shit is good. Being in a tribe is good.

And getting shit that ain’t your shit (yet) for nada consideration is appreciato maximoso in the land of freedom. Your land.

Except… that ain’t the way you think.

You think that all the world’s a stage and you’re a stage director but you forget you’re on a big Sheep and El Capitano is dribing and bribing and following a course set out so long ago that nobody, not even the Captain, asks… where are we headed?

If you’re happy getting fucked, raise your hand. If you’re unexcited about your role as a pretend freeman, start raising your awareness.

And you ain’t gonna like what you see.

Freeman…