he liked pussy,
and bull riding,
though I like bull riding too,
and well, we all know,
where I won't sit on the subject,
of eating pussy,
(their words not mine).
in the first five minutes,
they reminded us,
those who watched,
that he was a manure streaked,
stained wrinkling, ugly, coke snorting,
paid roast leather lickin',
rotting from the outside in,
penis of a man-
straight. I almost turned it off.
This is who they choose to be our hero.
This is who they choose for us to look up to.
This is who we will praise by the end of the movie,
when the white inconsequential data quietly assumes
the center of the screen.
This is who we will give awards to for celebrating
his story, our story. This man. This anti-hero.
The man is angry because he doesn't want to die,
by the end of the film, I don't want him too either,
except we know he will, he yells, and flings shit at
the drug companies for treating disease as a business,
treating him as a business and yet,
who profited from the buyer's club?
who? We are collateral damage- to him.
there is an awkward Schindler moment,
when they give the man a free house,
I wanted to cry, I wanted him to cry.
but,
he doesn't,
like us he's afraid to die,
afraid to die, like us,
caught in a corner,
this is our hero you choose for us.
this man,
this.
Why?
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