Why Bother, you irritate me.
You keep saying nothing is really worth doing well, Why Bother, nothing is really worth doing at all.
You don't plant flowers. You don't even draw flowers unless forced to by others who bother with things you can't see the reason for. And then you want to draw all flowers to look, not like orchids -- each uniquely rippled and tinged, with or without sentient whiskers, cupped or not cupped, veined or unveined -- but to look like this:
|from Daily Mail: "What your doodles really say about you"|
It says you are a simple circle with lazy petals.
You think ironing is pointless, Why Bother. You think poetry and voting are a waste of time. You think thank-you notes and family meals are unrealistic, that personal integrity is foolish, and that answers to hard questions are out of reach. Why Bother, you don't think there's any reason to speak politely to rude people. You don't think you should make your bed. You don't think small things will ever make a difference. You don't think.
You don't climb mountains, Why Bother. You don't make boiled cider syrup. You don't read much. You don't care much. You don't ever sing, Why Bother. You don't go up against injustice. You don't go for walks. You don't go the distance.
You don't go. And then wonder where your life has gone.
But I have to forgive you, Why Bother, because you have no idea what you are missing.