THE DAY JACKSON DIED

Sunny day Jackson chose to die. Everyone in Holmby Hills, where he used to live, must’ve been out enjoying some outdoor activities that only summer allows. Michael was gazing hopelessly through the window, craving for ice cream from the park stand, though he felt a rush of fright and insecurity as he thought of the idea of actually exiting home. First his skin might burn and redden and eventually that might lead to his natural color which wasn’t nearly as bright. That could easily be taken care of by one of the premise’s staff. The real problem wasn’t the outer body but, as usual, the inner. What if I see a cute little boy and a cute little girl and want to take them to Wonderland and later sleep tightly with them? He decided to forget about the ice cream and get some morphine, much more convenient anyway, no going out and getting horny, no skin blemish, and sweet and tasty as a cone of ice cream.

I was at home that sad June 25th, jumping in and out of the pool not as worried as others would be about my skin. I came into the house down to the kitchen looking for some drinks when one of the several we-never-stop-talking TV shows caught my attention. It was definitely UCLA on the screen, a weird image for a nonsense, airhead and gossipy channel to show given that the hosts know nothing about the word “school” or “education” or “UCLA”.

I turned the volume up, sat and listened. After I heard the whole review, I got my drinks, went outside and thought to myself: When I’m struggling between ice cream and morphine I’ll try to get ice cream and if I can’t, I’ll try not to go overboard.