Living the American Nightmare

It’s possible, I suppose, that I could doze off and have a bad dream of a middle-aged abortionist, as wide-eyed as Cruella de Vil, driving a yellow Lamborghini packed tight with the severed limbs and organs of aborted babies.

I suppose I could imagine her speeding recklessly through my hometown, weaving down a well-worn road I never knew existed, her hands stained with blood as she grips the steering wheel and laughs at how stupid the rest of us are.

I suppose I could fall into a terror like that in my sleep, but I haven’t, and I don’t have to.

We can find enough horror like that when we’re awake, here in the American Nightmare.