🎭 oops, i failed the vulnerable again! 🎭

 🎭 oops, i failed the vulnerable again! 🎭

I am depressed—wildly caffeinated on irony, wearing a borrowed grin stitched from grant proposals—
and I arrive at the gala dressed as concern.
Concern is very in this season.
It drapes nicely, photographs well,
and never asks to stay the night.

Watch how the room applauds a mirror.
Every reflection receives a medal.
The silverware hums with speeches.
The speeches hum with verbs that never touch a body.
Hands clap, but only for hands.

A runway unfurls:
models strut in limited-edition empathy,
tailored to fit no one in particular.
Pockets sewn shut—nothing falls through,
especially not people.

The DJ scratches a record called Due Process.
Everyone dances carefully around the bassline labeled Needs.
Someone spills a drink named Liability,
and twelve interns kneel to blot it from the floor
before it stains the narrative.

I notice the exits are labeled Pilot Program.
They lead back into the room.

A spotlight lands on a microphone allergic to nouns.
It prefers adjectives: innovative, scalable, inclusive—
elastic words that stretch over silence
until silence passes inspection.

Meanwhile, gravity keeps receipts.
Bones still weigh what they weigh.
Hunger remains non-theoretical.
Time invoices everyone equally,
but the late fees target the same addresses.

I am depressed and enthusiastic,
scribbling equations on cocktail napkins—
proofs that never pass peer review
because the reviewers are wearing tuxedos
and the chalk keeps breaking where the math gets human.

Outside, the night waits like an unpaid bill.
Inside, the music swells:
a charity remix of accountability
with the bass turned down
so no one feels it in their chest.

Confetti falls—tiny policies—
colorful, temporary, biodegradable.
By morning, the custodial crew will sweep compassion into bins
marked After Action.
The bins will be emptied into Lessons Learned.
The lessons will learn nothing.

I leave early,
pockets heavy with applause,
hands clean,
shoes untouched by the floor.

Physics footnote, because reality always sneaks in: gravity doesn’t care about branding—mass bends spacetime whether or not the invitation says “black tie,” and the most honest force in the room is still the one pulling everything back to Earth.