…Brought into being by a mechanical social convention: totally expected. Nobody’s surprised. Nobody’s impressed: not even herself…

She is seventeen.

Bloated with sexual infamy: some forgotten hallway at some forgotten party with some forgotten boy in some forgotten globe of her soon forgotten innocence.

She is seventeen, and she has reached the end of her life.

Listen:

Pride can kill you.

Fin!

…Existences aren’t for nonbeings…

She is 18 – 45, corporate america's uni-age.

The groceries. The mortgage. The apartment. Her fourth bastard child: her cunt is expanding as quickly as her welfare check. The alcohol. The drugs: another abusive boyfriend beating her for another “shit” blowjob. Kids are crying. Teachers are “concerned”. The courts are watching…

She is 18 – 45. Unhinged.

Fads are changing and her kids “need” new clothes that she can’t afford. Her eldest daughter is pregnant and running away. Her eldest daughter is “fourteen”. “18 – 45” doesn’t know how to handle this, so she smokes some crack and gets beat up by her boyfriend. She is raped. Her soon to be fourth child is killed during the rape; the boyfriend is put in jail for manslaughter.

She is 18 – 45. Anonymous.

Lying atop a blood stained mattress, dead fetal tissue fermenting within her womb, “18 –45” gives up. With broken arms she clutches her remaining children, and staring into them through blackened, dilated eyes, she speaks:

“Pride cannot justify any of this.”

…

…Existence is when we consciously are.