As a child, I had a terrible memory. I forgot where I lived so often, my parents started nicknaming me “How Does He Keep Finding Us?” (I should mention they moved houses, often in the middle of the night, always without telling me). But when the first shafts of sunshine burst through the tree branches, like Mother nature herself punching through a wet paper towel with a stick made of fists, I was always wide awake and ready to go after resting for two days and crying for three.

“LET THE HUNT BEGIN!” That’s what my t-shirt said. Maybe I should have yelled it and started running towards forever for no particular reason, like they do in the movies but instead I decided that before I found my way back new home, I would find out the true meaning of Halloween or at least start a brushfire big enough to get my name on CNN Headline News.

The year didn’t matter. Neither did the hairstyles, the latest magic tricks, fashion dogs or the latest fashionable magical hairstyle tricks, my dogs. All that mattered is that it was 1992. I was 1- years-old but my hands were already grizzled from spending the first sixteen months of my life making ornate chandaliers for a wealthy dowager that kidnapped me. They looked like baseball mitts and roast beef eloped, then spent two years fusing in an oven. Needless to say, I wore mittens often.

It was almost November. I remember because the date on the calendar read: ‘Oct 31st, 1992.’ I could also feel the early onset of a November Rain when Slash came by my turtle’s christening unannounced and handed out pieces of his hat. Everyone went wild, especially Slash (that’s my turtle’s name).

I didn’t have a costume that day. I don’t have a costume most days. I already dress up and pretend to be someone I’m not every day. you need me to add a cape to that? So I’m wearing my favorite cape over a pair of snow pants, when it hits me: a giant Butterfinger. It must fallen from a tree which was weird because I was inside. I looked around my room and that’s when I saw her: Sheila. “HOLY FUCK, SHE’S BEEN DEAD FOR YEARS,” read the back of my t-shirt.

Sheila was my gym teacher the first time I took second grade. She died in class one day of a sudden planned suicide-pact with her girlfriend, Lunch Lady Sheila. It was sad and beautiful at the same time, like old people having sex in soup or a dog that’s great at painting but terrible at poker. BOOM! Another Butterfinger hit me, this time right in my elbow. That got my attention because a dead ghost had just thrown two candy bars at me.


TO BE CONTINUED (next post in one hour)

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