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you win. in my shame, I'm forced to admit la dolce vita. I'm sorry
for shangri-la. I weep openly for the huddled starving masses denied the milk and honey that I gulp down in supersized containers, belching out a CO2 cloud that rivals the combined flatulence of the gross total bovine output. I choke back tears momentarily, consoled that my fuel-efficient vehicle costs less to power than an average 10-speed bicycle. my moaning lamentation subsides. my deep dark depression is lifted by the backs of starving diamond miners in south Africa. I dare to chuckle, quietly at first so as not to alert the microphones implanted in my coworker's head. the giggles brought on sudden overwashing gratitude and pride. a gift god granted to the lucky few. a graceful bestowment labeled "made in the USofA". I slowly forget the dry ice bombs and mustard gas that seared my life as a teenage terorist with misanthropic rage. those old hateful neurons that used to burn lines spelling out "I hate" have been replaced by friendlier impulses that enunciate "I love" in the seven hundred and seventy-seven names of god. a god that loves me. a god that made me AMERICAN. so have a coke and smile, foreign-born slave. my kind will always reign supreme. we have god on our side. a god that's forgotten his red-headed step children. a god that only has time for ME.
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