Oh to be by Claire"Oh my God, I think he's dead." You hear Claire say as your body bounces around from her shoves. She pushes you hard, her nubile fingers pressing against your black t-shirt, your cargo pants, they sink into your gut and your hairless arms. So nice. You hear her shrill cries for help and notice how much she cares for your safety. It must be love. Your sister, upset and frustrated, slams on the breaks and grabs a handful of pennies from the ashtray. While looking forward, she throws them back at your face. They bounce off and collect in your lap, and while they hurt, it is not enough to pull you out from the ecstasy of Claire's voice, scent, and arms thrashing your body as she tries to revive you. Is this nirvana? Maybe.
Now in a desperate panic, your sister grabs the cigarette lighter and presses it against your thigh, burning a circle into your pasty, white flesh. Your eyes bolt open. Ripped from heaven, you look around the car to see eight eyes staring at you.
"What?" You say, looking down at your burned flesh. Five minutes later they drop you off at the grocery store.
You can realize that you’ve wasted the last few moments of youth at an occupation you hate or fool yourself into a numb compliance with one of these great excuses.
You've heard of #BlackLivesMatter and #AllLivesMatter, but the ancient voice of a mountain offers us the hardest truth of all: #NoLivesMatter. And also some opinions about immigrants.
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