Living In America Raw Here

The highway is a religion. You spend three hours of your life each day sandwiched between a lifted truck with a Punisher sticker and a Tesla whose driver is watching TikTok at 80 mph. Road rage is the only real meditation left. You flip someone off, then feel nothing.

At work, you’re expected to reply to Slack messages at 10 p.m. because “we’re a family.” Your boss talks about mental health awareness while denying your PTO. You smile. You cash the check. Half of it goes to health insurance you’re terrified to use because the deductible is a used Honda Civic. living in america raw

The grocery store has 47 kinds of peanut butter but no fresh vegetables within five miles of your zip code. You eat frozen pizza in the car before driving home so you don’t have to cook. Your phone buzzes: a news alert about another school shooting, another climate record broken, another CEO making 300x your salary. You swipe it away. You have to be up at 5:30. The highway is a religion

And somehow, when the moon comes up over the power lines, you feel a strange love. Not for the flag. Not for the politicians. For the chaos. For the fact that you’re still here, still fighting, still broke but laughing at a meme at 2 a.m. with someone you love on a stained couch. You flip someone off, then feel nothing