Perhaps, just perhaps we were just stapled together by the threads of obligatory handshakes and hugs and then one day we were predisposed to admit that it’s the picture that’s perfect, but the frame will never fit. Stapled together. Glued together. Like the wrong puzzle piece forced by children into a place in the world. Because that’s what they are. Children that tell us that the picture would be perfect if we could conform and settle. Adults, they are children. They corner you, and kick your options into oblivion. I refuse.