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You could choose, if you want. Do you want the hundred and fifty women and children trampled to death today in a stampede in India? Or would you prefer the nine climbers swept to their deaths on K-2 by an avalanche? Or the dozen climbers stranded at the peak, who are doomed because the fixed ropes at the bottleneck were swept away too? Or the macheted tutsis? Or the jews? Or the armenians? 
The list is endless.
And growing.
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And yet. 
I get to be with my wife. I get to struggle with the problems my daughter brings to our table. I get to pay my bills with the money I make at work. I get to wash my truck and cook shrimp and bok choy in peanut sauce with peaches and limes and chilis. 
It makes me sick.
*
It makes me sick.
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And yet. And yet.
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I can’t stop looking at it. I can’t cease licking my fingers and pouring another glass of wine and reading another book. 
About how fucked up we are.
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I love this whole blasted contraption.
The wheezy calliope. 
*
I think I could win you a gold fish or an ashtray or a lime-colored stuffed dog.
*
It is a carnival.
*
It is, it is.



*


I am not blameless in any of this.




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