Locals know the story… Outsiders have heard it all before

Locals know the story…

Outsiders have heard it all before…

But try being on the other end of that loaded gun on 2 different occasions in your life and then read about how another young clerk, just a couple miles away, wasn’t so lucky.

I’m not sure why I’ve gotten away with life so many times. Between the two hold-ups and the two serious car accidents, you might as well start feeding me Tender Vittles, pat my head, and tell me to stop eating the plants.

Haven’t you ever had that thought…

“What would people say about me when I died? How many people would show up to my funeral?”

I’d die to know the answers to those questions. Did you catch the irony?

Why, though? Is there something deep within me that really does need to be seen by the world? In what ways would I ever contribute to the world to explain the sparing of my life? Perhaps, life is just waiting for me to soak up enough knowledge and passion and love so then it can let me down by killing me off. Knowing my luck…

It’s a real shame what happened to that guy. It hurts to hear what happened to him more than all other anonymous-to-me deaths, although I’m sure I have seen him during my many late-night trips to that very CVS. But I don’t hurt for his family…

I hurt for him, who probably learned something new that day…

Who probably was smiling an hour before that…

Who probably was running late for work that night and was already anxious to get back home…

Who’s last sight was of a fucking black kid whom he never saw before, pointing a gun at him for no reason whatsoever…

Who probably didn’t even have a chance to think that he was about to die…

Who didn’t get to tell his girlfriend he loved her –one last time– and didn’t get to hear it from her –one last time–…

Coz

Create until nothing is left to create.

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