07/01/2026
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In the few classes in school I went to, this made zero sense.
Sounded like nonsense.
Old words. Old drama. Old men arguing over nothing.
Wigs. Words. Some bloke asking for a pound of flesh.
Pointless.
Fast-forward a few decades, self-employed, battle-scarred, and suddenly it reads like a warning label.
Everyone wants their pound of flesh.
Not metaphorically.
Not politely.
They want your time, your graft, your contacts, your knowledge—
and they want it cheap, flexible, and preferably guilt-free.
These “friends” love the deal when it’s your skin on the table.
They clap while you bleed.
Call it loyalty.
Call it friendship.
Call it “just help me out.”
But the second you stick to the agreement?
The moment you say that’s the limit, that’s the price, that’s as far as this goes—
now they’re offended.
Now you’ve “changed.”
Now you’re the bad guy.
They want flesh without blood.
Work without payment.
Boundaries without consequence.
Shakespeare wasn’t being poetic.
He was being accurate.
Real friends don’t ask for a pound of flesh.
And fake ones lose their minds the moment you stop bleeding for them.
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