Eli is my five-year old son. He has an older brother, Slade. Slade writes fiction and spends a substantial amount of time on FlipNotes, so he rarely says anything worth quoting. Eli, on the other hand, has unknown goals and will say things that I feel other people could relate to, so I occasionally quote him via Twitter and once on Autostraddle.
All I know is first you’ve got to get mad. You’ve got to say, “I’m a human being goddammit. My life has value.” So I want you to get up now. I want you to get out of your chairs and go to the window. Right now. I want you to go to the window, open it, and stick your head out and yell. I want you to yell, “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore!”
Then who were those teenage goons sent to frighten us wee children back in grade school with tales of life-ending catastrophe and humbling community service hours spent plucking trash, orange vested, from interstate onramps as a result of being tempted by that white dragon? Were they genuine drug casualties or had they merely gotten caught? Rumors circulated through junior high that with one snort you were addicted for life. One snort and your heart would explode.