No More to Give

At a certain point, one simply runs out of fucks to give. All the fucks you had in your fucks bag, bag of fucks if you will, are gone. You reach your expectant hand into that bag and try to scoop one out. You swirl it around, shake the bag, turn it upside down, and stare into the empty a little disappointed, a little relieved. You could try instead to search through your satchel of rat asses, your fanny pack of damns to give. That’s it, they’re all gone, your fucks, rat’s asses, and damns. It’s done. This is the very moment you must decide if from your very flesh and being you scrape some little piece of you and fashion it into a fuck (or damn or rat’s ass), a good enough fuck (or damn or rat’s ass) to hand off in place of the others you now wish you had saved. But you didn’t.

You handed those rat asses out for people who would swallow them up and demand more from you, people who would turn their obese bodies toward you their mouths open as if to swallow you whole. You gave those damns away to stupid shit that never mattered to you anyway. You threw away the fucks you had to give on dress codes, where to sit, who won the fight, why they’re being cold, on fear, and wealth, and gossip. Too bad you didn’t think twice and save them all up for shit that mattered. And that sucks. But what sucks even more is even though you’re out, even if it kills you a little more every time; you’ll fashion more fucks, damns, and rat’s asses until it sickens you, until it kills you. Or not. Or you could say you’re all out. You could put a sign up that says you’re all out of fucks, damns, and rat’s asses. You could tell everyone who expects you give them anything, no. You could tell them no. You could shrug your shoulders, not apologize and walk away. You could let someone give you a fuck, damn, or rat’s ass for a change. I mean, that’s why you’re all out. Too much give and not enough take. And you can only give so much. Otherwise you end up standing in that white dress having a panic attack with no eyebrows still willing to walk down that aisle, each step getting farther and farther away from the tiny little bit that’s left of you…. Off topic…. Eh, you get the point.