Me as a high schooler with (from left to right) stepbrother, sister, brother.
I’m writing a memoir. Did I mention? Not MY MEMOIR. Like that, in all caps. I’m not old enough for one of those. Okay, maybe I’m old enough, but I’m certainly not wise enough.
A memoir is different, I think. About a little bit of my life, extracted and pulled out, held up to the light. A fingernail only. An eyeball. An aortic valve.
My family’s going to hate it. I know this already. With every word I write, I feel the bad things piling up. More pain in an attempt to undo the pain. Like surgery before wellness. Extracting the bullet. Stitching the wound.
Lust. Greed. Wrath. Envy. Pride. Gluttony. Sloth. Seven sins to make a life.
Are they sins when they’re accidental? Or do they just downgrade to stupid, unthinking, unaware, selfish? I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.
Do you want to read it? The bits and pieces as I write them? It’s not a pretty story, but it’s not an ugly-drunk one either. It’s mostly a stupid, beautiful story with some moments of dirty clarity. And some lust, of course. Lots and lots of lust. Can I sell that to you for a couple of bucks? Let you see behind the screen of hair and eyes? Do you want to?
Think about it. Get back to me.
Kiss kiss bang bang, s.