MY GRANDMOTHER WORKED THE MILPAS AND I ATE TORTAS DURING LUNCH AT SCHOOL. DINNER WAS FRIJOLES, A CUP OF MILK, A SLICE OF BOLIO. LIFE’S GOOD FOR A LITTLE BOY, BUT THEN THEY KILLED THE LAMB. SOMETHING INSIDE ME DIED THAT DAY TOO, SOMETHING INSIDE ME GREW. AND THIS FILTHY SIN CITY, I CALL HOME HAS GIVEN ME SOILDBEDS TO GROW MY PAINS. HOW DOES THIS DIRTY, BROWN, queer, bipolar, MEXICAN-AMERICAN INDIO EXIST IN AMERICA. OH GOD, IS THIS WHAT IT MEANS TO BE ALIVE? THEN BLEUTRASH IS THE ANSWER TO THESE QUESTIONS. A NEVER ENDING EXPOSE OF MY FAILURES, LOSSES, AND WINS… EVIDENCE OF HUMAN EXISTENCE. MAYBE BLEUTRASH IS JUST AN ANSWER FOR ALL MY SHITTY EXPERIENCES, LIFE'S NO GOOD TO AN IMMIGRANT CHILD ANYWAY.