Do you like Bob Marley?

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“Jah, mon,” said the dreadlocked man with dollar signs
emblazoned across his black button up shirt.

He was holding two things: a blunt and a ball
of the basket variety. He was white,

just in case you were wondering or whining
in your head about RACE. If you rearrange

those letters you get the word CARE. As in, what’s
the point? It’s fucked. We’re fucked. All is meaningless.

Meaningless! Utterly meaningless! Who said
that? God or senpai? Have you seen that nut job

up in Detroit talking about Satan? No?
Good. Anyway, the man asked if I knew how

to make easy money flipping houses. I
told him it was on the dark side of the moon,

then I chuckled and changed expressions. “I’m good,
bub,” I said. “Want to see me impersonate

Wolverine?” Then I stuck out three fingers on
each hand and started roaring like a dino,

which made no sense, because I was supposed to
be doing my best James Dean. Wait, no … where was

I? What was I talking about? What happened?
I looked around, as if paralyzed. “Thomas

Sorrell,” the man giggled – and understand, this
wannabe-macho douchebag with a goatee

must have been at least 40 years older than
God, but he I swear, he giggled like an infant

when he asked me, “Did you know if you say your
name phonetically it sounds like ‘Tom Ass Sore?’

“El oh el,” I replied. Then I asked him if
I could rewind. He winked. Then I asked him, “So…”

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