One morning, I decided to make myself out of papier-mâché. I mean like really. I mean like this is how I came into being. What I did was I tore pages out of what would become my favorite books, soaked them in gin and whiskey and this really good chicken soup that I would attribute to my mother, who I made later out of clay and put in a sort-of shoebox diorama, another one of my craft project people.
Still wet, I went downtown with pages dropping off here and there since I wasn’t yet glued. It was okay, though. I had more, and I knew one bookstore where you could get whole stacks of remaindered books on the right day of the month, just laying there stripped naked of their covers. Mostly they were carted off by the homeless for starting fires. What I did after that was I went to the racetrack and made a deal with an open-mouthed gaping jockey for his losing racehorse.
The smell of long-boiling hide was maybe the worst of it, but I can still hear the sound of the dumb beast bleeding out. I felt sorry for it anyway, but that’s the way of things. I have to say that I came out lumpy and smelly and weird, which most real things turn out that way. Later, though, I got it right. I made a person with words.
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Sorry for the missed update. You know. School. Sleep. Etc.
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