double standards

i had my first whiff - dang. it was bad. how bad? i cannot quite say without falling into the same cycle: the swing is just a little too hard, the cry babies have red bottoms, while a teacher's pet is all the glory. not like morning glory, whose wilting stance i quite imagined many times before it actually happened. it was the first day i got cupid's arrow, and it hit wrong; hit me in the eye, not where the bull nearly got hit, skipped a beat. that beat became a clap, then a shout when a bigger pay check would have been much better. you say, save it for a rainy day, but then you are always out there on the rainy day without me. gambling. i suppose you call it being astute, though when the play is reversed, you know like cross stitched you tell me it is all for nothing. nothing comes from our dialogues. the baby is fast asleep again, having rehearsed many times how the debacle would go about, and it is never the one that sings the loudest, it is just noise, not really beethoven. the glass is cracked, cracked face you breaking into many pieces saying this is all a rehearsal for the real event. wait. we kept waiting for that moment to come about, the moment when me and you would just get the exact same fair share that we've never quite come to agreements. then the moment comes, we forget why we argued in the first place, the standards mean double. double vision surely, and here we go again.