How do you know if you're in or out? I don't mean as in belly button, nor as in exuviae of animals who've clearly moved on after the moult, leaving the old skin or carapace behind as if it were so last season, wouldn't be caught dead in it! I come across this passage in a magazine: you know you're an outsider when even supposedly on the inside, you don't feel like an insider. How true! Is it merely because fashion's fickle like that, or because people are [pick one: xenophobic, nationalistic, racist, sexist, ethnocentric, intolerant]? Perhaps if you really were inside you might be able to say the things you bottle up for fear of repercussion. Perhaps, if you really were inside, that promotion might have come ten years ago. They'd finally spell your name right on every correspondence. They wouldn't tap you on the shoulder to ask for silverware. Are your credentials real, your words stolen? Do they still follow you around the store just for ogling the ridiculously high-end merchandise?
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.