Life is getting too strange for me. People are getting washed away in minivans, the atmosphere is opening wide, and our leaders are high-fiving Nazis to the sound of weeping mothers. It all feels like a bad trip. What happens next? John Cena leaves wrestling for interpretive dancing? Nike pays middle-aged, white men to make their shoes for a dollar sixty-seven?

I walked outside this morning to a dead kitten, a dog crapping in my car, and a state trooper. My day felt rough, but people are rowing down the highway in canoes, so I can’t say much.

That’s the way it is. Someone else is always doing worse until you’re dead. Then you get a day. Gotta hold it together through the empty bank accounts and pain cause the-girl-down-the-street’s uncle’s cousin’s great-great-grandma died. Wouldn’t want to be rude. Get weird to hide anything other than.

What happened to letting everyone cohesively be miserable? Now we’re expected to take turns. We have Instagram and Twitter to pose for while we wait. Hold it together for that girl in Connecticut who commented “your life looks beautiful” a month or two ago and hasn’t liked another picture since. Don’t post the pictures of the hangover, the death, the stress. We’re all happy here.

There’s a lot to look forward to. It can only go up. People who win the lottery seemingly die, though, so don’t bank on that golden ticket. And you’re greeted at graduation with a cap, gown and somewhere close to 20k in debt. Led to slaughter with golden cords around our necks while being told we’re better than. But dead all the same. Walking straight past the good shit. Through the likes singing from the trees. And the cats rotting in the sun. The state troopers leading the herd as the dog runs off. The only bastard worth a damn in the whole lot.

It sounds fun and all, but I’m ready to get out of here. Break out of line. Jump the fence. I’m going to the mountains for the weekend. Maybe I’ll just stay there. Pack a few lighters and live in the trees with my boyfriend. Void of house but far from homeless in the big old mounds the way some god intended.

Maybe naked. Maybe afraid. But alive, god dammit. McMuffinless and ALIVE.