For a while you think you have it. You move from playfield to playfield, armed with the thought that you own it. Everything’s easy. There is no contest. You don’t listen, they listen to you.
Until someone reaches out to you… and slaps your face sore, you wouldn’t realize how much of a spoiled prinsesita you are.
For a time, you’d think you’re bullied. That you’re misunderstood and misdirected. That you just want to be heard.
And then your layers reveal. Then you begin to see.
You. You. You. Youyouyouyouyou.
Bratinella. You must learn. Enough of your excuses, kid.
I’m in for a lot of learning in this lifetime.