This World

I wanted to rip my fucking skin off.

 

I needed to be invisible. I wanted to hide from the world.

 

Fuck the world.

 

Again. It was happening again. I just stared at the TV. Motionless. Numb. Painfully familiar.

 

Westminster Bridge was a mess. Bodies everywhere. First Responders rushing to save lives. But you can’t save them all. The British Parliament was in lockdown. Details were sketchy. But we all knew.

 

“We have no information that leads us to believe this was a terrorist attack.”

 

“We are not ruling out terrorism.”

 

“Islamist-related terrorism is our assumption.”

 

It never ends. Ever. I’m exhausted. We’re all exhausted. And the world will be worse because of it. It’s fuel for the  Trump machine to further its anti-Muslim stance. Its fuel for border guards to humiliate brown people. It’s fuel for the now-emboldened racists to spew their hate in public. It’s fuel for hate crimes. And it will all happen.

 

I walk around work feeling like all eyes are on me. They’re not, but it still feels that way. Maybe it’s the big, shiny red zit in the middle of my forehead. (Always a good time for that.) But it’s more. It’s my guilt. I have brown guilt. And no matter how much I intellectualize my way out of it, the feeling still coats me. I make small talk as needed. By the elevator, in the kitchenette. I feign smiles until it hurts. And this stupid zit just keeps on growing.

 

Is this really the world my kids are growing up in? Full of violence and hate? Well, I guess the obvious answer to that is yes. Yes it is. And it’s all out there for us to see. Social media just depresses the hell out of me. Want to learn about every terrible thing humans do to each other? It’s in all the news feeds. And so is all the anger and hate and rage and bullying. The whole world can take part. And it seems like the worst ones do.

 

I walked home thankful that I ran into no one I knew. The cold air filled my lungs and it felt nice. I moved fast and rarely looked up.

 

Little Man was home with Lady K. He was no longer sick. The floor was paved with his toys as he bounced off the walls. Lady K was just rolling her eyes.

 

“Boys.”

 

So I picked him up over my head and threw him on the couch. He bounced and laughed. I did it again and again, and we were soon laughing together.

 

“Do it again!”

“Okay!”

“On my head!”

“No!”

 

Then we wrestled and I tickled and bit him. He was almost crying. I was too.

 

I went into the bathroom and popped that fucking zit. Puss and blood splattered the mirror.

 

Fuck the world. Today is my day.

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