In high school, you were a little shitty toy made in Taiwan by an eight-year-old for five cents an hour. You came in six different colors, twenty-four different flavors, all basically the same. You were marked up on holidays; put on clearance the day after. You were bought by moms and grand moms and dropped by clumsy children unsupervised; many times lost and forgotten. You were the slow toy who didn't get things all the time, very quickly. You had things explained to you in plain English. People drew you pictures. You were boxed in pink for the girls and black and blue for the boys. Sometimes you had short hair, sometimes you had curly locks of polymer gold. Sometimes you were sad. You had four special phrases in your analog voice box. You said, "Far out, dude!" and "Way to go, pal!", among two others you can't recall. You said them in bright tones of possibility.
But what you really wanted to say was suck a fuck, bitch tits. Suck a fuck, you fat cunt.
You never could, though. You could only spout pleasantries and words of ambiguous encouragement. And that, the philosopher poet might say, was the most tragic part of all.