The Sadness of Theresa May 

I bet Theresa May has never had an orgasm. I bet she’s never had noisy sex, screamed with laughter, wailed and shook with horror at the loss of a loved one. I bet she’s never told a dirty joke or puked somewhere embarrassing. I bet she’s never hated anyone so hard it made her ill. I bet she’s never loved anyone so hard her stomach flipped and she couldn’t eat or sleep for days, and tortured herself for being a fool.

 I bet she’s never watched a homeless man arrange his dog’s blanket and water bowl before he considered his own comfort and hurt so hard for him she wanted to change the world for him (and his dog). 

I bet she’s never known what it’s like to live in a moment and want to freeze a slice of life and show everyone how simplicity is better than fancy shoes or status or a large bank balance. I bet she doesn’t know how it feels to be loved so much that it doesn’t matter if you have no worldly goods or a big house – or any house, a big job – or any job, a grand education – or any education. Just loved. 

I bet she doesn’t know what it’s like to sit and make sense of the world with people who have no formal education but have felt great things, thought great things and done great deeds and are more than happy to one day slip away from this world without a splash because being good and kind and nice is better than any of the shoes she has. 

I bet she doesn’t know that no one is jealous of her. I bet she thinks her ambitions are everyone’s ambitions and she has somehow reached her climax. 

If she could I would tell her to think again. But I don’t think she could. I don’t think she can be that free. 

It’s incurable I fear. 

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