“Why are you so upset about adult content bans? You don’t even post that stuff. can’t you just look at porn somewhere else?”
Well, you see, I have this small problem where my very existence is considered adult content by a small but very powerful group of people and I actually rather enjoy being able to exist in public without restriction so uhhhh put that in your bong and smoke it kiddo.
im changing my name purely bc i don’t like it and we just told my family like a month ago. i haven’t been home since then but today i got back and my (extremely country) uncle gives me a pat on the back and goes “so i hear you’re my nephew now. proud of you, son” and i have to very gently say i am so so happy to hear that but i am still his niece just with a cooler name. and he throws his hat down on the table and goes “no! but ive been practicing!” so now he is calling me his nephew for fun
O Yes? Do they come on horses with rifles, and say, Ese gringo, gimmee your job? And do you, gringo, take off your ring, drop your wallet into a blanket spread over the ground, and walk away?
I hear Mexicans are taking your jobs away. Do they sneak into town at night, and as you’re walking home with a whore, do they mug you, a knife at your throat, saying, I want your job? Even on TV, an asthmatic leader crawls turtle heavy, leaning on an assistant, and from a nest of wrinkles on his face, a tongue paddles through flashing waves of lightbulbs, of cameramen, rasping “They’re taking our jobs away.” Well, I’ve gone about trying to find them, asking just where the hell are these fighters.
The rifles I hear sound in the night are white farmers shooting blacks and browns whose ribs I see jutting out and starving children, I see the poor marching for a little work, I see small white farmers selling out to clean-suited farmers living in New York, who’ve never been on a farm, don’t know the look of a hoof or a the smell of a woman’s body bending all day long in fields. I see this, and I hear only a few people got all the money in this world, the rest count their pennies to buy bread and butter.
Below that cool green sea of money, millions and millions of people fight to live, search for pearls in the darkest depths of their dreams, hold their breath for years trying to cross poverty to just having something. The children are dead already. We are killing them, that is what America should be saying; on TV, in the streets, in offices, should be saying, “We aren’t giving the children a chance to live.” Mexicans are taking our jobs, they say instead. What they really say is, let them die, and the children too.
