Wrong Place. Wrong Time.

Ah yes.
Grey skies, saturating weather.
Kids throwing styrofoam plates from the local pizza place onto our lawn.
It's another one of those days.
In which I'm glad that I wasn't born in Africa.
They have nice weather, sure, but the list of pros stops around there.
I knew a guy from Africa.
Shawn...Matua? I've been trying to remember the name for days.
And it does, really, sound vaguelly African, doesn't it?
A lot of As in there, combined with a U.
African.
He was in French class with me.
It took me a couple of classes to figure out that French was a language they spoke in Africa.
Specifically the part of Africa that he was from (Kenya).
Which is why he would go to class, put his feet on his desk, and read the newspaper.
(Participation mark).
But so many people in Africa tend to have AIDS.
Or they're starving.
Or they're starving with AIDS.
Sometimes it's a good practice to take a step back and remind yourself of what you were born into.
Slavery, too.
They had that one for a long time.
Yup.
It's a great day to not be in Africa.
I don't mind picking up the plates, considering.