Are you impaled on something? Currently, I mean. It’s a big world with lots of people; one of them must be impaled on something right now, as we speak.
Can you leave the room you’re in? I’m not saying that there will be no repercussions to overturning your desk and squealing your tires out of the parking lot. “Are you allowed?” is what I’m asking.
Are your genitals unremarkable? If you pulled down your trousers or hiked up your skirt for a medical professional, would they do a double-take? Or would they say, “Yup: human genitals.”
Has the ocean taken an interest in you? Do waves full of seaweed sneak in through your bedroom window and try to drown you in your sleep? Has the tide followed you down an alley?
How about stairs? You never think about stairs, do you? I still take ’em two at a time like an overgrown pup. I’ve climbed the stairs in the Statue of Liberty and those famous ones in Santa Monica. The summer camp I went to as a kid had almost 200 steps leading down to the lake, and twice as many leading back up: we used to race. Some people plan their days around avoiding stairs.
How about stares? I don’t get them; I look like every other white guy on the street. You probably don’t, either. There are folks that do their grocery shopping at 2 am because the store will be empty, and they know the cashier’s used to looking at them.
How’s the currency by you? If you’re reading this, then what your culture uses for money is stable. Whole countries wake up broke, occasionally, and the assholes that caused it never suffer. Just the poor people who want to wipe their asses, but toilet paper’s always the first thing to go when an economy collapses.
It’s not as bad as it seems.
I mean: it’s not as good, either, but it ain’t so bad.