Die Right, Motherfuckers!

Faced with imminent death, a few Americans simply lost their mind.  They quit their jobs, grew out their hair or wandered the streets in the nude. They urinated out of windows and stomped on pigeons.  Some people, especially teenagers, curled into little Spanish tildes on bedroom floors and bawled their eyes out because the world no longer revolved around their inchoate beauty.  Other people traveled to the Tahitian Islands on rafts or they sailed to Cuba from the Deep South for universal healthcare and subsidized Rum, throwing their American HC passports overboard.  They smoked as many hydroponically cultivated, high-grade Skyway Joints (made from hybrid Skywalker and Thai Buddha weed) as they could get their hands on and spent all day playing v-Playstation 7 until their embedded microchips were hot.  They robbed their neighbors for years of dog shit on sidewalks and backyard barbecues they’d never been invited to.  And a lot of the pastilleros (the 2030 lingua franca word for "pill-poppers") just committed suicide by DBT in the spring—400,000 people all in one day, for six days straight, to be exact.  It’s hard to see the silver lining with capital punishment.  People told ourselves: we’re not like those people who don’t know how to die correctly.