I don’t really get to be the Indian. Or the cowboy. Or anything real, except for a guy in a weird white space suit who walks on ugly, c-r-a-t-e-r filled dirt stuffs. And I don’t like science, and I don’t like the color white. It’s boring.
I wish everybody else had left something over for me.
Sometimes Dad tells me I was born in the wrong century, that I should have been one of the pioneers of America, traveling around in a dust-filled wagon and breathing the air of new places and finding hidden hollows in the secret-filled mountains. I like Dad’s words, they sound cool when I say them.
You could say I’m o-b-s-e-s-s-e-d with it, the old things, the horses and the sunsets and America. I like America. My doctor says I’m fixated, but she’s a girl, what does she know about exploring.
Sometimes I watch riders on television, just to see the oldness of the horses. It’s kind of weird though, they just run around in circles. They don’t even go anywhere anymore, just around and around and around again.