Excepting two horrific incidents involving goldfish that wished for their own demise, I had an idyllic childhood in one of the (surprisingly numerous) parts of New Jersey that could be confused for Kansas. However, these incidents still haunt me — making me question my existence, and what goes on below the surface of fishbowls across the world.
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Since I can remember, and it might even be safe to say since graduating high school thirty-eight years ago, my father has only read two books: The DaVinci Code and Angels and Demons, both by Dan Brown. He liked the books because my father likes to pretend to be a Catholic, and he understands the Catholic references…
Since we’re performing at night, our days are empty. Unless we want to blow stacks of cash and our dignity at Dollywood, there’s not much to do. If we get bored, I think, maybe we could go get pedicures together! It’d be so fun! Every city has at least one salon, and nails are like math — the same in any language. “Would you ever get a pedicure?” I ask him.
At work, the metal butt-urn on the loading dock is smoldering like a Dickensian or Mary Poppins chimney. The butts are on fire again. It smells like burning pvc pipes, Home Depot’s plumbing section sacked by early first century marauders. I used to contribute, but it burns without me…
The Halloween Walk of Shame is a uniquely odd experience, and I’ve talked to other people who have done it… To wake up, stinking of tequila, next to a half-dressed witch, and then you don’t remember her name… And then, in order to leave, you have to replace your ninja costume that you chucked on the floor last night. Well, it’s like layers of Who Am I? on top of layers of Who Am I?