I’ve had it up to here with “All Lives Matter.”
The shootings recently have me completely jaded. Not because they don’t matter—they do.
But because they’re everywhere. All the time. Most recently, the domestic terror incident at the Planned Parenthood in Colorado. The shooter was taken alive. Three dead.
And the first thing that I could think of at the resolution of the situation was: the suspect cannot have been anything but a white man.
Because, in situations like this, that is the only way the suspect ever gets out of these alive.
Let me back things up a a bit.
The telltale scent of gasoline, syrup, and carrion meat is all I needed to tell me that for the final few weeks of not having an actual mattress, I’d been lucky: the bedbugs are in the bedding. I’m quite glad I’d taken the paranoid option and bagged every piece of linen that I had used as a temporary bedroll mattress assembly at this point—I didn’t even need to see the place where a dead one had dislodged its desiccated corpse.
What I’d forgotten about was that this is weeks of signal chemical, and anything live was about to come running.
Cue my shriek when an exceptionally fat, well-fed little pestilence bringer shot up the side of my bed frame and made a beeline for me.
11/2/2015. 9:11:26 PM.
A title that I mistyped several times as “viral hepatits.” Which is funnier, if nonsensical.