I think I want to be another statistic.
I’m not sure if it’s just me, but the thought of my name on that crisp white sheet of paper excites me.
The thought oscillates in my mind at a frequency so intense that it moves me like the Tacoma Narrows
Bridge.
I’ve given it some thought, and I’m sure that I want to be a statistic.
Maybe just a smidge.
But I know what you’re thinking.
You see, your thoughts oscillate at a frequency that also moves me.
And because of them, you’re tapping your feet.
And maybe in the back of your mind, you’re thinking about tomorrow and what you’re going to eat.
But on the front of your mind.
You’re questioning, pondering, asking me.
Quis, why do you want to be a statistic?
Let me clarify just a bit.
Close your eyes and just think.
Who said that a statistic always had to be bad?
Does it always have to be about people who sacrifice their life for a drink?
Or even about stone cold killers on the brink?
I want to be a statistic for the best man a woman has ever had.
Or maybe a statistic for one of the few black men that stay with their kids so that another child in this
world will know their dad.
I want to be a statistic kind of like teen pop stars want to start a fad.
It’s my choice alone, and I’m not sorry I want to be a statistic.
I hope you’re not mad.