I used to drive around stoned with Stuart, and we would sing “Another One Bites the Dust” every time we passed a nursing home with an ambulance parked out front.
This was when we were in college in small-town Texas. It was a cow town, though our tiny Liberal Arts university sat in the middle of it. This was where I got my Feminist Studies degree. And because there aren't that many undergraduate colleges out there that even offer Feminist Studies classes, let alone entire degrees, the fact that I majored in feminism in small-town Texas is quite impressive. Half of the cow town consisted of farmers and a Liberal Arts university sitting in the middle of their pastures, and the other half of town consisted of a ritzy gated retirement community. Everyone there owned a golf cart so they could easily visit their neighbors down the street, or they drove themselves around one of the two golf courses in the gated community in order to chase after a little white ball they couldn't really see.old people who lived in town and could not afford to live in the gated retirement community, they ended up in a nursing home where their body would eventually be picked up by an ambulance, and where “Another One Bites the Dust” would be serenaded to their dead body by two college kids who just happened to drive by at the right time while they were smoking a joint in between classes.
Stuart and I were in Genetics together, because this was when I was still delusional and thought I had to be a pre-med major, because that's what people do—they go to college and they become doctors. Stoned Stuart sat next to stoned me in class and was always drawing intricate designs with a black gel ink pen on his yellow legal pad. He never really paid attention, because he actually understood all of the genetics stuff. I always had no clue what was going on, and so I just tried to concentrate on not mimicking our professor's British accent when I asked her a question.
“The little buggers do what?”
Stuart had long black oily hair, strings of which were constantly in his thin, hollow face, and his thin hollow frame of a body was constantly in a Pink Floyd t-shirt. This was 2003. During this time I had short awkward hair that was in the process of growing out from the shaved head hairstyle I toted a year ago. This was when I would soon drop the pre-med major in order to go into Feminist Studies. I always liked learning about the body, which had always made me assume that I liked science. It took me three years in college to learn that what I wanted to think about were the social constructions of the body, not its intricate anatomy. One day when Stuart and I went on one of our many stoned drives together (we called them “rolls”), and after we were prompted by an ambulance to once again sing “Another One Bites the Dust”, I thought about doctors and how their line of work was to keep people from doing the natural thing of dying. I was more interested in what that dying body meant to the world, rather than how to keep it alive. This also helped me to see how I always wanted to talk about racism and sexuality, while Stuart just wanted to talk about the differences between RNA and DNA. It has something to do with proteins. I think.
Poem of the Week
who have experienced
on a large
i tell raif
i think my
might be dead
haven't seen her
& her car hasn't moved
for two weeks.
you would smell it
passing me a plate
of triangular shaped bread
slathered in jam.
Story of the Week
DARLEEN SQUEELED into the empty spot as soon as the gleaming white Mercedes pulled out. "We got lucky," she told Montana. "Even on a Monday night, this lot is killer."
Montana rolled her big blue eyes. "Whatever."
The eleven year old had better things to do, like text her friends. Incessantly, as if she had a tic. The kid hadn't wanted to shop tonight, but Darleen insisted. This was their first Christmas without Paulie and the girls needed to stick together. Darleen's ex had been nasty lately and mediation had hit a cement wall. Montana wasn't aware how dangerously close they were to losing access to Paulie's vast and unreported wealth.
Montana sighed dramatically as she yanked open the door of the Porsche Cayenne and tumbled out. She didn't pause in her texting.
Darlene checked her face in the rearview mirror. The most recent fat transfer had been wildly successful. She loved her new lips. Grabbing her Gucci bag, she hopped out of the front seat.
Her daughter trailed her into the mall, thumbs flashing on her phone keypad.
Graphic of the Week
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Most Popular Graphic Art of Issue 64
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Wind Chimes of Happiness
Something came over her, and in an instant, she was standing over Ben gazing into his listless eyes. Janice took a pillow from under Ben’s head and shoved it in his face.