Please read the link.
Thank you. Are you sorry that you did?
This is why people don't like to read newspapers, why the clinically depressed tend to have a more realistic view of the world than happy people. If you believe that our planet is a good place, that we're the blessed children of the sun--good vibes and positive energy and all that--you've just seen something in direct contradiction to it. Or you have one more piece of evidence that you were right when you chose to be a cynic. Either way and everything in between, a typical reaction is an air pocket that forms in your ribcage, and when you contract your sickened stomach, it escapes from your mouth in the form of a huff of exasperation at this depraved species of which you are a member. You might feel that I'm obnoxious for bringing this story to your attention, as if I put an old boot under your nose and asked for your confirmation on how bad it stinks.
No shit it stinks, Eric. Fuck off already.
Or, you laugh. It feels good to laugh. You think about commenting, "it could be worse. It could've been their second minivan," or "well, hold on just a second...how many miles were on it?" or any number of tired used-car salesman jokes, clever little one-liners that shield the psychological pistol-whip of hearing about an exploited young girl who had the bad luck to be born to her parents. You can't make this stuff up.
And if I did? If I were to use my imagination, if I told you a story about a couple who sells their 14-year-old daughter's sexual favors for payments on a 13-year-old minivan to a used-car salesman (who once had a failed run for state Senator in the 1970s--yes, way), I think you'd feel it was over the top. I would too.
What if I wrote about the lives of both the minvan and the little girl, jumped between their stories? Here is the little girl, asleep in a hand-me-down bed. Here is the brand-new minivan, ushering a loving family to a wonderful vacation in Florida. Too much.
The little girl grows older. The miles add up on the minivan, flying on rubber wings, closing distance to the little girl. You see where this is going.
The girl wonders why her parents' lips are so cracked, why they need her to do these things for them (because they love her so much, that's why, and she loves them too, doesn't she?). The van is sold, traded in. Another family--the girl's family--needs a minivan. Girl meets minivan, their mapped routes intersecting since their conception, and nothing is new anymore.
Nah. I think that's too ham-handed. Too desperate.
We need constant distractions from negativity of this sort, and there are entire industries that rely on that necessity. If you were to try and wrap your mind around all the suffering going on in the world even as you read these words, your mind would collapse, along with you, into a hot bath with a toaster.
Because life is hard enough without stories like these. We need to avoid downers and we need to focus on living life, being successful, maybe getting married, having kids, and if we have enough kids, someday we just might need a minivan.
