You are underwater. You are small. There is something glowing not quite like light.
“You would tell me, wouldn’t you? Tell you what? Tell me what I need to know. Give me a list. Heart disease, lung
cancer, Down syndrome, dyslexia, homosexuality, narcissism, trouble sleeping, incontinence, pride, greed, anger
management issues, libertarianism, eczema, fetal alcohol syndrome, vanity, rheumatoid arthritis, myopia. There’s
no time for losers ‘cause we are the champions of the world. Let me sleep. I’m tired. I’ve had a long day. We’ll talk
about it in the morning.”
It is 1865. You are on the threshold of a small room somewhere with floral wallpaper. You’ve opened the door and
scared the cat. The maid doesn’t acknowledge you, but she does. She looks you over, sizes you up, demands
“Your neck. Your back. You’re not a teenager. You’re not in high school. You’re not a little girl. You’re not taking
chances. You’re not putting yourself at risk. You’re not thinking of your future. Your hips. Your ass. You’re not done living. You’re not your mother. One drink won’t kill you. Let me help you. No one is watching and no one cares. One drink won’t kill you.”
It is 2015.