We passed by the bar in his town.
“I should take you there, and you can meet racist Fred. He’s nice, until he starts complaining about food stamps and immigrants. Maybe he just does it because he knows it annoys me. I made him cry one time. He called me up crying and saying, ‘Oh, I felt so attacked last night.’ What a fucking snowflake.”
He chuckled to himself triumphantly. I smiled, looking at the way the orange streetlamps colored the brick buildings we were cruising by, tickled by his use of that word.
“Yeah,” I said after he parked the car. “That’s a good way to explain it. We’re snowflakes. We’re all water coming down in different shapes. We fall to the ground, evaporate, and become part of one big cloud. Then the cycle continues. We become new snowflakes and come down again. No self, no birth, no death.”