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In a Funk

“How can it smell so bad? We just showered you yesterday!” As I stand in the kitchen sniffing my fingertips, Byron is incredulous. Bruno Mars is still backstage polishing his loafers, yet there is some serious funk going on. I press my fingertips to my nose, and it is a...

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White Knuckles

Clatterplunk. Every night we hear it above our heads: the rolling of the office chair as it’s pushed away from the desk, the thump of a plate being grabbed off the wooden desk, and the predictable punctuation of clatterplunk as a fork hits the floor. These sounds tell us something: the fifteen-year-old is on the move....

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Warm Fuzzies

When I was in 4th grade, my class went through a careful, deliberate, rigidly enforced process of loving each other. Such was the climate in the mid-1970s, an era when feeling groovy was a cultural mandate. At some point during 4th grade, our teacher, Mrs. Ring, talked to us about the...

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Wherein My English Teacher Rightly Hangs Me Out to Dry

During sophomore year of high school, my English teacher was named Mrs. Rice. We can’t accuse Mrs. Rice of being overly fond of the redhead in the second row. As I review the work I did in her class, it is apparent that Mrs. Rice was a seasoned teacher. I wasn’t...

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Dear God, I Love You

One of my first friendships was with a neighbor girl, Susan. When we were two years old, our mothers decided we should be friends. So we were. As we were coming up, we loved each other hard, yet we had terrible battles. A kid who was innately a people-pleaser, averse to...

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It Would Be a Few More Years Before I Learned About Parallelism

I’ve been sifting through boxes of memories — the accumulated papers from my youth. As I grab each handful of faded pages, drunken journal entries, glowing fourth grade report cards, conflicting judges’ sheets from speech meets, crude first grade drawings, crazily folded letters, I am pulling more than paper onto...

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Drunk Bota 4

I Tried to Get Pinteresty and Ended up Drinking a Box of Wine

Listen, I didn’t drink all three liters in one sitting. The last thing I’m in the mood for is wiping vomit off the hardwood. (Note to self: make Pinterest vision board of photogenic approaches to mopping up half-digested ravioli) Trust me, I did pace myself with that box of wine,...

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Salt on the Road

Grey sky hangs low, a cinder block compressing the horizon. Lifeless, yawning fields spread to the left; decaying tillage muddles the acres on the right. The car flits past a “Did You Know? My Heart Beat 18 Days from Conception” billboard, then another, this one taking the tack of “My Doc...

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