The bad provider

 

If we were traveling around Europe and had to make a living off music, you would play your guitar on the main squares and expect me to sing and know the lyrics of popular songs. In a few minutes you would find out, I did know the lyrics to many songs but didn’t know how to sing; you would then ask me to dance and discover I have the heaviest feet ever.

 I think you would then resort to asking me to show my boobs to passersby. At that point, I would go take a pee and never really come back. Eventually we would both grow tired of wandering around and go back home. You would see I had made it; I would not only be back but would have had good experiences. I would not have died of hunger, nor would I have lost any weight. I would have looked good, tanned.

You, on the other hand, would look older, sadder. Moreover, you would wonder, forever, how your guitar could have fallen short as a provider and how I could have made it.