Every several months or so, George Zimmerman, a congealed collection of the pus escaping from a surgically lanced rectum boil, reminds us that he's still not dead. He has become especially good at this; at inching his way to the recesses of our collective consciousness. And then, right when he's on the precipice of abject irrelevance, of being forgotten the same way you've forgotten about the dead rat you saw splayed on a subway track in May of 2014, doing something that tells us that nothing — not an electric chair, not a firing squad, not a set of brakes that shouldn't have passed inspection, not a bone in a batch of greens he assumed were boneless, not a meteor dropped from the sky, not the undead and reanimated corpse of Denmark Vesey — has killed him yet. Apparently, the only thing he is better at than doing this is stalking and murdering unarmed teenagers.
Today this something is the announcement that he's planning on auctioning the gun used to kill Trayvon Martin. He will trend for a few days after this. Perhaps even a few weeks. And then, as we always do, we'll start forgetting about him, again. His name, his fucking face — they'll start to sloth their ways back to the back of our minds. And then, months from now, his name will trend again. And it'll be for an appropriately Zimmerman reason. Perhaps he'll get cited for choking his nephew in a Perkins parking lot or something. Or maybe he'll go full Ramsey Bolton and feed that nephew to an alligator. Who knows? All I know is that it'll happen again — that he'll remind us he still hasn't been killed yet, because he just can't help himself from doing that — and we'll continue to yearn that maybe the next time someone or something will happen to prevent there being a next time.