Oregon Trail
Oregon Trail
A thief stole 6 oxen from your wagon.
SPACE BAR to continue.
You decide to rest.
You lug back 88 lbs. of otter meat.
You have reached Blue River Crossing.
Bindi has died.
You have typhoid.
Next landmark: 88 miles.
You have exhaustion.
You have fish odor syndrome.
You lose 3 sets of relatives and 84 Sharpies.
Your supplies: 2 oxen, no clothing, 3 wagon wheels.
SPACE BAR to continue.
You find a turtle shell with no turtle in it.
You have herpes.
You have anthrax.
You have polyps.
The wagon tipped over while you were womanizing.
You have reached Blue River Crossing.
You have family trust issues.
You read “We who are parting.”
Smoke-flowers blur red river.
You sleep late.
You have $90,000 in outstanding college loan debt.
The river flows alone.
SPACE BAR to continue.
Mountains are surly and blue-haired.
A cloud floats from its mark.
You gleam like birds.
Here lies Brad Pitt.
Here lies Raptor Jesus.
Microsoft Word does not recognize the name Shaniqua.
You have jaundice, congenital arthritis and calyx blisters.
You have no one.
You wail, holler, cry, screech and slam.
You are doable in a jiff, crunch, pinch or jot.
You marry Xanax to Flonase.
SPACE BAR to continue.
Your circadian rhythms are fucked.
You wonder what happens to tampons in airports.
You have engorged lipids.
You figure out the meaning of finger bowls.
You inherit The Christian Science Monitor.
The river flows alone.
Your mind goes away.
Everyone in our party has left for another party.
Would you like to look around?
—Adam Fitzgerald
—found in George Washington (2016)