A Martain met a Bussyblaster with AIDS in a ruined city on Mars and told him the meaning of life- The Martian Chronicles (1979)

You will never be a real neighbor. You have no melanin, you have no opps, you have no drip. You are a headass cracka twisted by drugs and gang shit into a crude mockery of nature's perfection.

All the "validation" you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back people mock you. Your parents are disgusted and ashamed of you, your "homies" laugh at your ghoulish skin behind closed doors.

Hood neighbors are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed neighbors to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even tronkies who "pass" look uncanny and unnatural to a neighbor. Your bone structure is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk guy to hang with you, he'll turn tail and bolt the second he hears your chipmunk butt crakoid vocal signature.

You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself it's going to be ok, but deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.

Eventually it'll be too much to bear - you'll buy a rope, tie a noose, put it around your neck, and plunge into the cold abyss. Your parents will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. They'll bury you with a headstone marked with your birth name, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a honky is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton that is unmistakably white.

This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.

Snapshots:

• ghostarchive.org

• archive.org

• archive.ph (click to archive)