If these stories and memories seem empty it’s because they’re empty. This is the fog of my previous life. I drown in the effort to reveal to myself what I have experienced.

The mother was a tamed shrew. Woodcock was a randy sailor boy. Their spawn are my competitors for the air of the divine.

All I ever wanted for christmas was my two blunt feet but what I got was a handlebar in my face. Salty, bloody ice-cold stainless steel.

The coolest thing Woodcock ever did, that I know of, was ride a motorcycle. I remember his friends popping wheelies up Partridge Street. TJ says they all made fun of Woodcock at the shop but I thought the shop was sacred space. Later, when Woodcock was trying to pretend that he was my father, he put me in his sidecar and popped me up in the air over an empty box.

Ethel never did a cool thing in her life or if she did I wouldn’t tell you about it.

Don’t blame me, I’m from Massachusetts.

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