Not Sorry

Not Sorry

In a fit of rage I cut off my fingers on a table saw. But I’m not sorry.

I’m not sorry because I’ve learned to adapt. It’s taken will and fortitude and discipline to adapt.

It’s taken will and fortitude and discipline to accept my losses without being angry. Without being full of regrets for things I can’t change.

Though I can’t play golf with my mangled hand, I’m not sorry. It’s doesn’t really matter because, even before, I didn’t play that much golf. So I’m not sorry.

Though I’ll never play the flute with my mangled hand, I’m not sorry.

I can still eat, drink, sleep and shit with a mangled hand. So I’m not sorry.

I know I’m horrifically disfigured, but I’m not sorry.

As far as I can tell, my life’s pretty much the same as it would be with a normal hand. So I can’t say, “I’m sorry.”

Don’t tell me I’m a fool for cutting off my fingers in a fit of rage. You can’t tell me that, cause I’m not sorry.

Would I advise you against cutting off your fingers? Well, I can’t say “no” since I’m not sorry I did.

Even if I profess to love you, would I advise against cutting off your fingers? I guess I can’t since I’m not sorry I did.

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