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Carl died from a teenager sexting while driving. Carl was drunk on a bike.

Jerrod lost 200 pounds walking to Subway to eat. Jerrod lived behind a Subway parking lot.

That little kid in those McDonalds commercials is overjoyed with happiness over his Happy Meal. That little kid died of a clogged artery four years later. 

He was obese too.

We’re just products of our stories. Our good stories. The ones that make us feel hope. The ones that makes us feel fear. Whatever changes your mind. Or not. Whatever makes you feel warm and cozy. Or cold and lonely. Whatever makes you feel the need to purchase a gun and lock your doors. Start building the doomsday shelter beneath your backyard. The neighbors will understand. We’re just products. Like Abercrombie models or Winners of American Idol.

Besides the fact that I’ve never been robbed, maybe I should get that wallet with the chain attached to it, and lock it to my belt. Just in case. 

Besides the fact that I’ve never won the lottery, maybe I should scan through Sky Mall magazine on my next flight and plan what useless garden toys I should buy next. Perhaps the miniature stone Big Foot. Or the fake rock to hide my air conditioner. 

Or the Elder Wand. 

Besides the fact that I’ve never been in an accident that flung me through my front window, maybe I should wear my seat-belt. Maybe.

Or maybe I should try Not Giving A Fuck. I hear side effects include less stress, a more calm behavior, the ability to chill-ax, the ability to live a care-free life, and, less stress.

Ingredients include watching mind-numbing television shows for hours.‘Merica. Enjoying a nice warm beer while cars drive in circles for hours and hours in the heat of southern summer. ‘Merica. Spending the majority of your paycheck at GAP on cargo shorts or t-shirts that say “GAP” on them. ‘Merica. Getting lost in cheese dip with salsa dripping down your chin at a Sunday afternoon game of football. ‘Merica. Waking up Monday morning with a mind-splitting headache in a dry sweat on your bathroom floor from too many tequila shots after the win. ‘Merica.

You get the idea. 

We’re all just standing at the bottom of the stairs in the physical way. And where’s your mind gone?

Lost. Lost in the television. Lost around the race track, those colorful isles at GAP, the cheese dip and salsa. Lost down the porcelain whirlpool that goes, somewhere. 

We’re not just exporting jobs overseas anymore, we’re exporting our waste. Screws and bolts. Like an oiled machine.

Maybe we can export the Chicken Dance too.

Line dances, pump-up sneakers, and step aerobics. How about 1993? 

If there’s any point in all of this, it’s that maybe someone has to be the one to donate old, shit-stained whitie-tighties to Goodwill. And someone has to be the one to buy those very same old, shit stained whitie-tighties from Goodwill. We’re just passing products along like an assembly line of little children in some east-asian sweatshop factory. Was there ever any doubt?

Originality doesn’t exist anymore. We’re just copies of copies of copies. Shaped copies like Playdo or mash potatoes. Some are saltier than others, some are softer or stained more intensely. Racing Stripes are here forever. 

Racing Stripes are God’s birthmark on a pair of whitie tighties. 

Maybe you’ll be the next Alisha Keys, but then again, you’re the next Alisha Keys. Maybe you’re the next Jodie Foster, wait, nevermind, no one wants to be her...

We’re just adding parts to pre-made objects and saying, “It’s New!” Not that you really noticed. Despite the fact that it’s all been done before, we’ll just keep living like it hasn’t. And that this time, This Time, it’s real, it’s original, and it’s New. 

Whatever flips your turkey burger.

Or maybe, just maybe, we just like clinging to whatever story makes us feel better (or worse), warm (or cold), happy (or sad). Like tinkered products, made to serve a purpose.

What purpose?

Made to pass the old, shit stained whitie tighties along the assembly line. ‘Merica!