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Don’t Tell Me I’m Fine
Transparent lies provide scant assurance
Whenever my wife leaves the house, I wonder if this will be the day she does not return. Or my kids, as I drop them off at school. Will this be the last time I see them turn, smile and wave goodbye?
The cesspool is rising. The slime gathers around our ankles. It’s getting harder to walk. Now it’s at our knees.
Random people offer their condolences.
“We hate other immigrants, but not you, no, you’re fine!”
“It’s the illegal ones we hate. But not you.”
“You’re cute and sassy and you have a delightful accent. You’re totally fine.”
“Why would you have a problem with me saying that? Aren’t you listening? I’m telling you that you’re fine. I’m telling you that I don’t have a problem with you. I have a problem with the illegals because they’re breaking the law. Not you. You’re fine.”
In my mind they dress in 60s fashion. They wear those lime green jackets like the wives of NASA astronauts. They have matching triangle earrings and glasses, white gloves and a bob haircut. Always laughing, ever miserable.
“You’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine!”
Pause for breath.