What Doesn't Kill You...

Here is a picture of me from what I think was a third grade field trip. It was back in the day when they threw caution to the wind and let eight-year-olds tour the quarantine unit. At least we had those flimsy paper masks and hats to keep protect our noses and heads from the ebola. This picture previously contained my once two friends, Ramona and Nina, the Rosencrantz and Guildenstern of Sister Frances's class. I cut them out of the picture for this reason. I also cut out the knife that was sticking in my back. Thank you, photo manipulation software for resurfacing the rough texture of my childhood.

I thought Richie might like this one because I always say that Maddy looks like me from the eyes up, so it's almost looking at a fast forwarded picture of Madeline (sometimes I call her Mabs). It's uncanny because in this picture I have the same haircut that she has now. Uncanny.

Richie, if you find me dead when you get home, it's because I ate that lasagna that's been in the freezer for months. You really need to read that essay by Angela Carter about the life of Lizzie Borden. Everytime I think of rotten food, that essay comes to mind. It's not like an essay you had to write in college. It reads more like a story.

Anyway (my favorite transitional word), I need to go spray paint spider thoraxes (thoraxi), so I'll cut it off here.

I love you, always.