Racecars are fucking cool because they go so goddamn fast. I wish I was a racecar. Did you know that “racecar” spelled backwards is “racecar.” Same thing with “Bob” and “Mom” and “Dad.” And “Hannah.” I wish my name spelled itself backwards. That would be so cool. I would want my name to be “ImnpbtytbpnmI” not because it’s a beautiful or meaningful name but because it’s an incredibly beautiful name meaning “He who cannot be stopped!” One time I went to the Indy 500 and it was so loud. I don’t even know who won. All I remember is the traffic and the loudness and the heat and that I couldn’t talk to anyone because of the noise from the racecars. And also that I saw a woman who wasn’t naked but she was wearing a bikini top made of rubber boobs made to look like real boobs that I saw and those were maybe the first real boobs I saw even though they weren’t real but I felt like I saw real boobs. It’s funny. The first death I saw was probably Bambi’s mom. And that wasn’t even real either. My mom tells me I cried the entire ride home and that maybe she regretted taking me to see a movie like Bambi. All of this makes me wonder if anything in existence is real. It makes me wonder if maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about at all. Like maybe this whole time instead of writing about racecars I’ve been writing about shotguns.