Living the American Nightmare
It was in the between years when I functioned best. Those chunks of sticky time that aren’t really story worthy. Yet still somehow remain stubborn enough to fester in these later years. They were an unstable foundation of mortgaged mediocrity that I knew was poisoning me. Killing me slowly in measured servings of bland suburban nothingness. Because the American dream only really works if you are sleeping. And everyone surrounding me was dutifully tucked in, on the clock, and snuggled deep in their 401(k)s. But I almost never sleep. So I saw it all. Like a map inside my head. The pitfalls and overlapping social implications. The selling out when certain lines intersected. The consequences of betting bad on desperate odds– it was worth …
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