All the songs are wrong these days. Maybe I’m listening to the wrong stations. My mother reminds me that there’s oatmeal on the stove but I can’t think about food. Everything is fucked. McFucked. Biggie size McFucked. I’m avoiding social media. Kittens can’t fix anything. Six new text messages. Someone is blowing up my phone but I’m watering my plants and talking to my tribe.
“How can anyone be okay with any of this? The oceans are crying. The deserts are screaming. America is diarrhea in the toilet but little girls think they can grow up to be Taylor Swift and Oprah and Kylie Jenner and the chick who gets saved by a vampire and the chick who gets saved by a bad boy billionaire. No one will be saved! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
I heard the mail truck so I put on a boot and couldn’t find the other one so I ran downstairs in my taco pajama pants and Cookie Monster t-shirt and one black leather boot and opened the front door and ran out into all that snow and ice and the mailman squinted at me with his whiskey eyes and tomato nose. He was holding a box. It was mine.
“You need a good old-fashioned ass beating,” he snarled. I thought I was hallucinating. It was a terrible dream. I didn’t want to ever wake up. If I said anything at all the whole thing would disappear. He handed me the box. I didn’t have to sign for it. It was mine. I wanted to thank him but I didn’t, just looked into his eyes, showed him that I wasn’t afraid. As I walked up the porch steps I felt his lust his leering white male gaze. I shook my ass a little to give him something to really slobber about.
“You’re probably right,” I told him over my shoulder. And then I closed the door.
Misti Rainwater-Lites is the CEO of Chupacabra Disco, which means she is all bluster and no pesos. Subscribe to her blog, buy her books and art, affirm her majestic glow.