The angry little man in the angry big truck cuts off three lanes of traffic.
I see his F Your Feelings bumper sticker, at eye level until he veers again.
I think that's something only psychotics and sycophants say.
My feelings are all I have and all I am.
More real than my arms or hands or bank account or zip code is the way I feel.
Who am I without my heart?
Dealing with dissent and disagreement by discounting my existence is a hell of an approach, especially when delivered by Ford.
Too bad he doesn't know what Fiat means.
But okay. Let's put feelings aside and be robots for a moment.
Let logic and sense rule the discourse.
Make it make sense.
Explain to me how much money is enough for billionaires. What do they need? How much do they need to ruin before they are sated?
Explain to me how brown people are not as good, how they can be lazy but also take your job.
Explain to me why what people do in the bathroom or what they have or do not have under their clothes or what consenting adults do in private is any of anyone's business.
Explain to me why so many places have healthcare but we can't crack the code, or why every place has mental health issues but we're the only one that shoots up schools.
Explain why women, who give life and carry knowledge and put up with a lot more for a lot less, should be quiet.
Tell me why we should define prosperity by how some rich people are doing, instead of by how good we are at taking care of everybody.
Make it make sense.
Then again, a sense is a feeling.
We all have lots of those, even if the sticker says we're not supposed to.
The little man with the big truck has lots, too.
He is so scared. His fear makes him sad. His sadness makes him angry.
His feelings make him lonely.
Maybe that's why he wants to be intimate with mine.
Like any jilted lover, he longs for attention and does not know the difference between that and love.
But he has a story too, buried deep. I will not hate him. I will try and learn. We are on this road together.
Does his fear and anger and loneliness and hate make him dangerous?
Sure.
But love is dangerous too.
So is truth, and beauty, and courage.
The right kind of dangerous.
I know what I want to choose.
Fear is dead and boring. It stays the same.
People like him will always be there.
Love is alive. Love moves.
And we have so far to go.