Do not box me in. Do not look at my car, or the neighborhood I live in, or the college I went to and think you know me. Because you do not.
On any given Sunday I’ll show you fifty different faces, fifty different personalities, fifty ways to hate me, fifty ways to love me or fifty ways to write me off … and not a single one will be a lie.
So do not box me in.
On Monday I come from Ivy covered walls, I glance over the WSJ, swish Brunello in my glass and I’m still hoping the CIA will call … again.
On Tuesday I grab drinks with my friends, half don’t hail from this country, we used to mop floors and swing drinks together, stay out ‘till we saw sun, sleep ‘till one … then do it again.
On Wednesday I’m running, I’m boxing in-between the ropes, I’m taking punches to the gut, icing my knees and snowboarding down a mountain, ‘cause it’s the most free I’ll ever be.
On Thursday I’m from a small, conservative town, with small-minded people, a church on every block, cows live in my backyard and I dream of one day getting out.
On Friday I dress to the nines, I’m bottle-service and 4-inch heels, I’m “sure you can by me a drink”, traverse the velvet rope, hot-iron paid off … and Rihanna plays the soundtrack to my life.
On Saturday the bank accounts are empty, it’s Spam for dinner again, we can’t have Christmas this year, so let’s put a mini-tree on a table and pretend like it’s 10-feet tall. It’s trips to the hospital, try not to cry … ‘cause for 8 more years, you’re watching him die.
And on Sunday I’m singing show-tunes with my friends … I’m talking time travel and souls … spitting philosophy like it’s my job … screwing up my job … writing a novel … a screenplay … a book … a blog … I’m laughing and eating brie and being anyone I want to be.
So do not box people in, because you do not see them when they are alone, you cannot see their past and you do not know their future.
And on any given Sunday … they don’t have to live in your box.