I Don’t Chase Clowns — I Own the Circus
There’s a certain kind of fool who thinks the world should kneel to their cardboard crown. They nitpick, they posture, they hide behind petty “rules,” hoping you’ll break yourself trying to meet their flimsy standards.
These people? They don’t want progress. They don’t want respect. They want control.
If your confidence can be shattered by the smallest thing, you never had any to begin with.
But here’s the problem—I don’t break. I don’t bend. I don’t play tug-of-war with brittle egos pretending to be iron.
You want me to care about the purity of your water wars? Your fragile little games? No. I will not.
Because while you’re busy puffing your chest, I’m busy surviving. Winning. Living. And if that makes me “too much” for you? Then you were never built to stand next to me in the first place.
I don’t need to raise my voice. I don’t need to argue. I’ll let you scream into the void of your own insecurities while I watch, quiet and unshaken. And when your conscience burns from knowing I’m right? I’ll light a cigarette, smirk once, and move on— because I told you so.
Jerry, Dept. of Petty Affairs, slaps the stamp down: “I don’t chase clowns—I own the circus.”
And then the Clown laughs. Not because it’s funny— but because by the time you figure out why he’s laughing, it’s already over.