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Nineteen years old.

When the frats kill – or destroy – a particularly young one, I post this variant I wrote of Randall Jarrell’s The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner.

From my mother’s sleep I fell into State U.
And I drank in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Miles from home, loosed from my parents’ love,
I woke to black vodka and the nightmare brothers.
When I died I was 0.486 booze.


Don’t read how they destroyed him if you lack a strong stomach.

As with extreme gun enthusiasts, frat killers consider the death or almost-death of teenagers to be a perfectly okay price to pay for their pleasure.

Margaret Soltan, June 8, 2022 8:55AM
Posted in: STUDENTS

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2 Responses to “Nineteen years old.”

  1. Louis Zapst Says:

    The incident is appalling, but I cannot refrain from wondering why the Daily Mail had to refer to the large bottle of vodka as “family-sized”?

  2. Margaret Soltan Says:

    Louis: Have to admit I missed that. I guess in the context of fentanyl-mad America, something like vodka begins to look wholesome. Like milk.

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