I don't miss the green.

I don't miss the grass.

I know I should. A better man should. A poet would probably be able to sit here, and write about that, about how much he missed the green grass, just missed the green, the way it waved in the wind, and the softness of it under his feet. Yes, a poet would miss it. He'd lament it. Yes, that's exactly what he'd do. Lament.

But I don't. I never cared much for it back when we had it. Or the trees, for that matter, or even the blue of the ocean. Back before the shit got in it. Sure, now, the water's all still and dead, all black and gray, and I guess that's pretty depressing. They say if you get in it, that'll even kill you now - but I always figured that was pretty likely before. And anyway, the horizon's still there, and that's all I ever really cared for - out there, endless, encompassing. It hasn't changed - everything else has, but it hasn't changed without the green.

I just wasn't made for this. Being a survivor. I mean, sure, I get along okay, and everyone says getting food here, clean water, that's hard, but it's not - it's just tedious. Right click, save as, right click, save as - that was tedious! And that was fine, and it's the same movement, more or less, to start a fire. Just a little further away from yourself - little more oomph behind it, a little harder. But I miss bad food, you know, takeout, and my anti-depressants. And I miss fizzy soda, with ice, and caffeine. Caffeine! And cable, and electric lights. You know, reasons to stay awake after the sun's gone down. Midnight showings. And IHOP. And reruns of Cowboy Bebop.

God I miss Cowboy Bebop. And staying up too late to see it, or rather, to see it again. And I miss having someone to talk about it with, even if just in an IRC chat, and bitch about how nothing's ever been as good as that, and won't ever be again. And talk about what could have happened next, about where Faye might have gone, or if Jet Black would have cried. Someone to argue with about whether Spike's really dead or not.

I met a guy for that, once. After everything went down. Like me, he lucked out, never got any of that shit in him. Unlike the grass, or the ocean, or the trees. He said his name was Diesel, and I knew he was lying, but he'd seen Cowboy Bebop, at least, and seemed up for talking about it, and that was all I wanted. And everyone now wants so much, they want everything, I think this skinny kid appreciated that, me just wanting to talk. Which for a while was cool, plus, you know, there were other things too, he'd seen both versions of Blade Runner, made jokes about things looking like Mordor, and he'd collected comics, and toys, and we'd both left a lot that stuff behind. And liked talking about who had left more.

But, I don't know. Diesel liked talking a lot.

Like, too much. And about everything, and not just Cowboy Bebop. Sure, sometimes it was interesting, but he'd just get started and go on. And on, and on, about this happening, or that happening, and all the what-ifs about what it was that cause all this. What if it was the government, man? What if someone did this one purpose? What if we were all that's left? Diesel was actually okay with that, he was actually pretty okay with everything that had happened. Something about his old girlfriend breaking up with him, just before, and then with everything going on, he thought he'd go see her first, before he left, giver her another chance. Maybe save the day. But it was too late. She'd gotten that shit in her too. Oh, man. And what if that happened?

What if one of us got that shit in them?

Just like that he'd be off again. What if weren't all that's left? He loved that one. What if we found a girl, you know? What if she was hot, what if we just didn't know what hot was anymore, what if we just didn't care? What if you couldn't be hot now that all this had went down? But mostly, what if we found a girl? Because if we did, Diesel said, even if she wasn't into us, we'd pretty much have to do her. Wasn't that rape, I asked. No, he said, because look at the world! Look at the shit, in everything. We'd pretty much have to.
It was about the survival of the species, man.

I crushed Diesel's head with a rock after that. It was pitch black out, and he was asleep, and I'd have never found one if there'd been grass.