Not fifteen minutes ago, I added another tally mark to my rather impressive "Asshole Moments" scorecard. If people traded these like baseball cards, mine would be a gem in anyone's collection. I am the MVP of sticking my foot in my mouth, and then once it's there, adding a little mustard and making a meal out of the whole leg.
Just now, in a semi-social setting where I was meeting a bunch of new people I came across someone studying to be a brain surgeon. This does not happen to me every day, in case you're wondering, and my enlightened comment was, "Dude! Wow. Well I guess if I find anyone with a brain tumor, I'll send 'em your way." As these words danced the air above my head, eliciting a mild chuckle all around, one member of the group quietly cleared his throat and said, "I actually have a brain tumor."
(Cue the iron safe falling from three stories above, creating an ever-widening shadow over me instants before I am ground deep into the sidewalk.)
I gaped at this person, waiting for the punch in the arm and the "Ha! Just kidding-- you should have seen your face!" but it never came. Instead, I mustered all my eloquence and managed, "Oh, holy crap, I am so sorry."
Other highlights from my Asshole Moments scorecard:
Working at a bookstore in Florida, I was assigned to reorganize the computer programming section. All the books in this section have maddening acronyms for names, like ASP and CCSII and C++ and MySQL and BFQR2D2, and the little subcategories and hierarchies within the section are vague, repetitive, and cryptic.
In an effort to bond with a coworker and seek a little commiseration for my task, I quipped, "God I hate these books. I mean, who would curl up on a snowy evening with this and a cup of tea? These things are about as dense and boring as computer programmers themselves." Ho, ho, ho.
Without missing a beat, my coworker replied mildly, "Well, I majored in computer programming and I loved it."
More! More!:
On one of our first dates, an old boyfriend of mine was asking about what kinds of organizations I was involved in during college.
I said, "Well, I wasn't a sorostitute, if that's what you mean."
He said, "Oh, I see. My sister was the president of her sorority."
In other news, my little cat went to the vet this week so we could investigate a suspicious lump in his stomach. I had, of course, googled cat lumps, as is my wont with anything vaguely medical and mysterious, and had immediately located all the worst case scenarios, so by the time we made it to the vet's office, it was probably a tie between the trembling cat twining himself around my neck and me for who was most nervous.
The vet and his wholesome looking female assistant (why are vet techs always girls who look like they came straight from Bible study?) wrangled Linus onto his back and promptly began poking him in the belly whil shoving a thermometer up his ass for a temperature. He stared straight at me the whole time and only meowed twice, very small meows, but still ice cold indictments.
It turns out that Linus got shivved in the gut during his tangle with Janet the Feral Welfare cat during his grand adventure out, and his shiv wound was deep enough to cause some mild herniating. Whether the lump is subcutaneous fat, intestine, or a pocket of pus (mm! had a meal yet?), is yet to be determined, but for now, I'm to shove antibiotic pills down his gullet twice a day. This is a very involved process requiring two people, specific choreography, and slices of smoked provolone cheese to ease the pain for all three parties.
Abby, the hyper-alert Australian shepherd, stands guard during the whole process looking for all the world like the kid who knows the answer if you would just call on her. Abby will take any kind of pill, injection, or whack in the teeth (just kidding), if she knows that that is her task and that she will be rewarded for completing it. Every month she bounces in circles for her heart worm pill and anti-flea treatment.
Linus is like me though-- very interested in the process leading up to treatment, but then wracked by spasms of horror whenever anything must actually intervene with his body.
And last, best, the SUN CAME OUT YESTERDAY! It was great-- I sat out in the back yard with a cup of hot tea, read a book about sociopaths, and let my body process vitamin D through exposure to ultraviolet rays. Nothing better, truly.
Showing posts with label social retardation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label social retardation. Show all posts
Friday, January 26, 2007
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Two for Abby
She's done it again: my violently anti-social Australian Shepherd has handily underscored my own personal deficits by achieving something we all once thought was impossible-- she's made a friend.
Today, while I sat moping on the front stoop, having been snubbed by the Breeders (total grim coincidence-- nothing to do with the blog and my karmic fit of conscience), Abby trotted over to the dog who lives next door, gave her a wide smile, and then slammed both front paws flat against the earth with her ass high in the air-- the play bow. What followed was the most joyful and elaborate choreography I've seen outside of a concert hall. Both dogs are mutts, but both are sleek, leggy, and built for speed. They tore tight figure eights in the grass, churning up clumps of dirt and leaves, and weaving over, under, and above each other, tumbling and diving and yipping and then both skidding to simultaneous halts to crouch briefly before leaping back into the chase. It was like watching two Russian prima ballerinas dancing a tribute to the Motherland, if Russian prima ballerinas occasionally sniffed each other's asses.
Watching her brought me some small measure of joy after a morning were I'd had flashbacks to the dismal politics of high school pecking orders. Life as a military spouse in the tiny, tiny town is apparently a much more delicate task than I had imagined. Providing further detail would be fruitless, since I myself don't understand how it all fits together. In some ways I feel like I finally understand the stress of being a CDC outbreak investigator-- you've got a town full of people vomiting blood, and then some random scraps of facts like "Farmer X has some sick pigs," "a busload of Canadian tourists came in for a convention and one had a cough," and "the city just started spraying for mosquitoes." All you really know for sure is that things are hopelessly fucked up, and now you've got a whole stack of tiny incidentals that somehow add up to the cause of it all.
Having been on the receiving end of a karmic kick to the crotch anyway, I figured why not put the Breeder post back up? After all, what is a blog for if not to document life's crotch kicks and high fives in real time for later frame-by-frame analysis.
The frame I want to focus on tonight is the one right after the blow, when the kickee's face is still in that universal "O" of shock, and before any decision has been made about further damage control or active retaliation. It's a frame I tend to get stuck in. I like to freeze the action and step outside, Matrix-like, and float all around the situation, admiring the placement of the kick, the way the kickee's back is hunched in receipt of the momentum, and then the little insignificant details-- look at the dead leaves on the sidewalk beneath them, look at their shadows, what pretty clouds...
It's as if at the moment of impact, the start of a conflict, I suddenly shatter into a thousand possible conclusions and reactions, each shooting out from a central point in a slow and graceful sunburst, kind of like the explosion of the Death Star in the uselessly souped-up version of Star Wars, Episode Four. It's a handy trick for intellectualizing emotional pain, but it also leaves the kickee standing there, vacant and pontificating, while the kicker winds up another one.
Abby's reaction would be simpler and much more honest-- bared teeth and a quick bite to the muzzle-- but I am somehow expected to employ finesse. What I'll likely resort to is my old standby, which is often misinterpreted as coolheadedness or thick skinned resilience. I'll stand back and wait. Somehow there exists at the core of my being a cheerful assumption that the first kick was a mistake. Surely you didn't realize that was my crotch you were punting! Only after kick number two will I rev up a response, and only, of course, after more analysis and some spirited coaching from my beleaguered support staff, who have been forced to review the footage as well.
Call it being a pussy, but even more than being safe, I like to be right.
Today, while I sat moping on the front stoop, having been snubbed by the Breeders (total grim coincidence-- nothing to do with the blog and my karmic fit of conscience), Abby trotted over to the dog who lives next door, gave her a wide smile, and then slammed both front paws flat against the earth with her ass high in the air-- the play bow. What followed was the most joyful and elaborate choreography I've seen outside of a concert hall. Both dogs are mutts, but both are sleek, leggy, and built for speed. They tore tight figure eights in the grass, churning up clumps of dirt and leaves, and weaving over, under, and above each other, tumbling and diving and yipping and then both skidding to simultaneous halts to crouch briefly before leaping back into the chase. It was like watching two Russian prima ballerinas dancing a tribute to the Motherland, if Russian prima ballerinas occasionally sniffed each other's asses.
Watching her brought me some small measure of joy after a morning were I'd had flashbacks to the dismal politics of high school pecking orders. Life as a military spouse in the tiny, tiny town is apparently a much more delicate task than I had imagined. Providing further detail would be fruitless, since I myself don't understand how it all fits together. In some ways I feel like I finally understand the stress of being a CDC outbreak investigator-- you've got a town full of people vomiting blood, and then some random scraps of facts like "Farmer X has some sick pigs," "a busload of Canadian tourists came in for a convention and one had a cough," and "the city just started spraying for mosquitoes." All you really know for sure is that things are hopelessly fucked up, and now you've got a whole stack of tiny incidentals that somehow add up to the cause of it all.
Having been on the receiving end of a karmic kick to the crotch anyway, I figured why not put the Breeder post back up? After all, what is a blog for if not to document life's crotch kicks and high fives in real time for later frame-by-frame analysis.
The frame I want to focus on tonight is the one right after the blow, when the kickee's face is still in that universal "O" of shock, and before any decision has been made about further damage control or active retaliation. It's a frame I tend to get stuck in. I like to freeze the action and step outside, Matrix-like, and float all around the situation, admiring the placement of the kick, the way the kickee's back is hunched in receipt of the momentum, and then the little insignificant details-- look at the dead leaves on the sidewalk beneath them, look at their shadows, what pretty clouds...
It's as if at the moment of impact, the start of a conflict, I suddenly shatter into a thousand possible conclusions and reactions, each shooting out from a central point in a slow and graceful sunburst, kind of like the explosion of the Death Star in the uselessly souped-up version of Star Wars, Episode Four. It's a handy trick for intellectualizing emotional pain, but it also leaves the kickee standing there, vacant and pontificating, while the kicker winds up another one.
Abby's reaction would be simpler and much more honest-- bared teeth and a quick bite to the muzzle-- but I am somehow expected to employ finesse. What I'll likely resort to is my old standby, which is often misinterpreted as coolheadedness or thick skinned resilience. I'll stand back and wait. Somehow there exists at the core of my being a cheerful assumption that the first kick was a mistake. Surely you didn't realize that was my crotch you were punting! Only after kick number two will I rev up a response, and only, of course, after more analysis and some spirited coaching from my beleaguered support staff, who have been forced to review the footage as well.
Call it being a pussy, but even more than being safe, I like to be right.
Repost Riposte
Originally titled "Life Among the Breeders"
I've recently discovered a new and searing social awkwardness, a discomfort so powerful it scatters my entire sense of physical equilibrium and leaves me wondering if I'm about to pitch out of my chair and onto the floor.
The only thing I can compare this to is the days of junior high, when for no discernible reason, I insisted on attending dances in the cafeteria only to creep wretchedly around the perimeter in slow, clockwise circles, praying for no one to notice me and then praying just as hard for the opposite. It's that kind of discomfort.
I've begun to keep company with breeders.
Let me make clear at the outset that I quite like these women-- they're funny and engaging, and they make delicious muffins-- I just keep running into the regrettable inconvenience that I have not yet knitted together my own little burbling bundle of genetic material, and this keeps me from having anything to add to discussions of, say, chapped nipples and episiotomy stitches. At least, not anything appropriate.
I'm also left to figure out what to do with my hands when the conversation falls quiet and everyone else is tickling toes or planting big blubbery kisses on fat little tummies. They all seem so wholesome, so purposefully engaged, so motherly, and then there I am in their midst, fiddling with a fork and nervously dragging the tines through congealed cinnamon glaze. I feel almost suspect, sinister, like in my childless hedonism I might as well be tying off the tourniquet and juicing up a big syringe full of smack.
It never quite made sense to me that anyone would genuinely enjoy a junior high dance-- I mean, how could you? It's dark but there's still that old meat and canned corn smell of public school cafeteria, the disco ball adds a nauseating sense of vertigo, and the DJ has to keep everyone happy so the music careens across genres to encompass rap, techno, country, pop, and Tejano. Motherhood seems about as compelling to me, and yet, oddly, like the dances in junior high, I occasionally find myself drawn to the idea, or at least drawn close enough to feel an intense shudder of awkwardness and doubt before I hurry back home and pop a birth control pill.
In all my laps around the GJHS cafeteria, I think what I was looking for was some tiny glimpse of the future, some theoretical time when the prospect of wandering out into a crowd of heavily cologned boys and dancing with one wouldn't make me want to retch in pure fear(incidentally, I only ever danced with one boy in junior high-- he later turned out gay). Maybe hanging out with the breeders is a similar exercise in hope.
I've recently discovered a new and searing social awkwardness, a discomfort so powerful it scatters my entire sense of physical equilibrium and leaves me wondering if I'm about to pitch out of my chair and onto the floor.
The only thing I can compare this to is the days of junior high, when for no discernible reason, I insisted on attending dances in the cafeteria only to creep wretchedly around the perimeter in slow, clockwise circles, praying for no one to notice me and then praying just as hard for the opposite. It's that kind of discomfort.
I've begun to keep company with breeders.
Let me make clear at the outset that I quite like these women-- they're funny and engaging, and they make delicious muffins-- I just keep running into the regrettable inconvenience that I have not yet knitted together my own little burbling bundle of genetic material, and this keeps me from having anything to add to discussions of, say, chapped nipples and episiotomy stitches. At least, not anything appropriate.
I'm also left to figure out what to do with my hands when the conversation falls quiet and everyone else is tickling toes or planting big blubbery kisses on fat little tummies. They all seem so wholesome, so purposefully engaged, so motherly, and then there I am in their midst, fiddling with a fork and nervously dragging the tines through congealed cinnamon glaze. I feel almost suspect, sinister, like in my childless hedonism I might as well be tying off the tourniquet and juicing up a big syringe full of smack.
It never quite made sense to me that anyone would genuinely enjoy a junior high dance-- I mean, how could you? It's dark but there's still that old meat and canned corn smell of public school cafeteria, the disco ball adds a nauseating sense of vertigo, and the DJ has to keep everyone happy so the music careens across genres to encompass rap, techno, country, pop, and Tejano. Motherhood seems about as compelling to me, and yet, oddly, like the dances in junior high, I occasionally find myself drawn to the idea, or at least drawn close enough to feel an intense shudder of awkwardness and doubt before I hurry back home and pop a birth control pill.
In all my laps around the GJHS cafeteria, I think what I was looking for was some tiny glimpse of the future, some theoretical time when the prospect of wandering out into a crowd of heavily cologned boys and dancing with one wouldn't make me want to retch in pure fear(incidentally, I only ever danced with one boy in junior high-- he later turned out gay). Maybe hanging out with the breeders is a similar exercise in hope.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Benevolent Censorship
I've removed the post "Life Among the Breeders" and here's why:
1. I believe in karma, and smartasses like me are constantly having to keep an eye on the karmic credit line. Much like pathological spenders, we sometimes fall prey to the belief that if something sounds witty, or particularly apt, then it is the equivalent of finding the hidden sale rack in an upscale department store-- the thing, in other words, justifies its own worth and must be purchased/said. This is not always true.
In the case of this posting, I had to ask myself which was worth more to me-- the chance to write down some snarky observations about being childless among a bunch of new mothers, or actually getting out of the house every now and then and talking to other human beings.
I did not remove the post because of the comments it solicited.
2. I used to know someone who said exactly what she wanted to say whenever she wanted to say it. Often she framed these things in witty prose, and often she submitted these things, with some success, for publication. I learned from watching her that there is danger in living your life purely to generate things to write about. The people you love become characters, and how you treat them becomes plot. This sucks.
3. Believing in online anonymity is like believing in the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, or Republicans with a sense of reality-- all bloggers would be wise to live with one hand holding the possibility of being linked to their blogs in Real Life.
That said, I'm trying to develop a code of ethics for my blogging, and so far it looks like this:
1. Thou shalt not blog at or about work.
2. Thou shalt not blog about the intimate details of thy married life, or about thy spouse unless; a)it is something complimentary, b)it is non-identifying, and/or trivial, or c)you have his expressed permission.
3. Thou shalt not grind axes in a public forum-- this is the equivalent of writing slanderous things on bathroom walls, only less effective.
4. Thou shalt not use the blog as a repository for things, both positive and negative, that thou hast not the grapes to say to the people who should really hear them.
Any suggestions?
1. I believe in karma, and smartasses like me are constantly having to keep an eye on the karmic credit line. Much like pathological spenders, we sometimes fall prey to the belief that if something sounds witty, or particularly apt, then it is the equivalent of finding the hidden sale rack in an upscale department store-- the thing, in other words, justifies its own worth and must be purchased/said. This is not always true.
In the case of this posting, I had to ask myself which was worth more to me-- the chance to write down some snarky observations about being childless among a bunch of new mothers, or actually getting out of the house every now and then and talking to other human beings.
I did not remove the post because of the comments it solicited.
2. I used to know someone who said exactly what she wanted to say whenever she wanted to say it. Often she framed these things in witty prose, and often she submitted these things, with some success, for publication. I learned from watching her that there is danger in living your life purely to generate things to write about. The people you love become characters, and how you treat them becomes plot. This sucks.
3. Believing in online anonymity is like believing in the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, or Republicans with a sense of reality-- all bloggers would be wise to live with one hand holding the possibility of being linked to their blogs in Real Life.
That said, I'm trying to develop a code of ethics for my blogging, and so far it looks like this:
1. Thou shalt not blog at or about work.
2. Thou shalt not blog about the intimate details of thy married life, or about thy spouse unless; a)it is something complimentary, b)it is non-identifying, and/or trivial, or c)you have his expressed permission.
3. Thou shalt not grind axes in a public forum-- this is the equivalent of writing slanderous things on bathroom walls, only less effective.
4. Thou shalt not use the blog as a repository for things, both positive and negative, that thou hast not the grapes to say to the people who should really hear them.
Any suggestions?
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Rock throwing punk
I was finishing up my run this morning (which means I was at the point where I felt like hell, was sweating buckets, and had to keep playing the Rocky theme in my head to even keep moving), when I rounded the corner on a bunch of kids waiting for the school bus, about 10 of them. I've seen these kids before. Our town has this dress code for elementary kids where they have to wear khaki pants and green polo shirts with their school logos on them, and thus appear way more harmless and collegiate than they really are.
So there they all are, looking like a Pink Floyd video, waiting in the dark for their bus. The few other times I've seen them, there's always this one pariah kid, a little weird looking, maybe a little too soft in his manners or features, a little weird in his habits, maybe a little too smart for his own good. I don't know. He's always sitting on a curb as far away from the rest of the kids as he can possibly get. Some days I see a car parked there on the street with its headlights on, and I think it may be this kid and his mom, like she's giving him a safe place to wait, but at the same time probably making the others kids that much more pissed off at him.
As I came around the corner today, there was no car and several of the kids were throwing handfuls of gravel and little rocks at this other kid. I had my dog with me, the iPod was blasting, my lungs were exploding, and I had a block to go before I was home and could stop timing myself, but seeing this, I had to slow down. I fixed my most heinous stink eye and the main rock thrower and get this: he didn't stop. He picked up another handful of rocks and pelted this kid right in front of me. I stopped running, yanked out my earphones and amplified the stink eye, walking right towards him and he threw another handful at the kid, some of which hit me in the shin as the other kid ducked and ran.
At this point, any adult would be justified in yelling at this little shit, perhaps addressing him accurately as, "Hey, you little shit," but I was exhausted, breathless, and stunned, and trying to think how to address the kid without profanity and coming up with nothing, and then, THEN I think I hear this, muttered under his breath: "What are you looking at, bitch?" This is possibly the one instance in my life where a hard core dose of happy-feeling endorphins has not served me well, because in that moment I made the decision to let this go because I could already see the bus rounding the corner and I knew that for now at least, the rock throwing had to stop. I gave him an extra dose of glare and memorized his face, but said nothing.
As soon as I picked up running again I regretted it. I should have given that fat little fuck the yell-down hell-ride of his life. I should have humiliated him in front of his peers. I should, at the very least, have gotten his full name and found out which house he came out of. But I did none of that and instead stood in the shower raging and scrubbing and coming up with vicious things to say to a 10-year-old that he would remember for the rest of his life. I even considered making the bus stop a regular installation on my morning routes to head off any more rock throwing and maybe even give my anti-people dog another chance to be scary.
Back when we lived in the last town, my husband gave a kid a yell-down hell-ride for throwing a handful of gravel at our brand new car as he drove down our back alley. He slammed on the brakes, threw it in reverse, and leapt out of the car in his uniform and yelled at the kid, who was trying to mount his bike and escape, to freeze. He then yelled at the kid until he admitted that yes, he'd thrown rocks at the car on purpose, and no his parents wouldn't appreciate that. Then he made the kid ride his bicycle back to his house, and my husband followed him and then told the kid to go inside and get his mom. When she came out, he told the kid, "Either you be a man and tell her why we're here, or I will." The kid fessed up, the mom was embarrassed and apologized and made her kid apologize, and my husband said it was all right, but that if he were a parent, he would want to know if his kid was throwing rocks at people's cars.
Now, I have no idea if the mom then went inside and told her kid, "I'm not mad-- but that's what you get for messing with one of those asshole military guys," and then blew the whole thing off, but I do know that my husband felt a hell of a lot better, and that every time we saw that kid thereafter, he was headed at a full run in the other direction.
Me on the other hand, I'm now thinking about all the times I was bullied, and all the times I did the bullying (mostly to my little brother, which counts double since we'll know each other for the rest of our lives), and I've just got this sick feeling in my stomach for not doing anything. Was it really the exhaustion and disbelief, the hope that surely I'd misheard or misinterpreted the scene I'd stumbled on? Or was is that old kid fear speaking in me, saying that the best way to stay safe was to keep quiet? Either way, I still feel angry and ashamed.
So there they all are, looking like a Pink Floyd video, waiting in the dark for their bus. The few other times I've seen them, there's always this one pariah kid, a little weird looking, maybe a little too soft in his manners or features, a little weird in his habits, maybe a little too smart for his own good. I don't know. He's always sitting on a curb as far away from the rest of the kids as he can possibly get. Some days I see a car parked there on the street with its headlights on, and I think it may be this kid and his mom, like she's giving him a safe place to wait, but at the same time probably making the others kids that much more pissed off at him.
As I came around the corner today, there was no car and several of the kids were throwing handfuls of gravel and little rocks at this other kid. I had my dog with me, the iPod was blasting, my lungs were exploding, and I had a block to go before I was home and could stop timing myself, but seeing this, I had to slow down. I fixed my most heinous stink eye and the main rock thrower and get this: he didn't stop. He picked up another handful of rocks and pelted this kid right in front of me. I stopped running, yanked out my earphones and amplified the stink eye, walking right towards him and he threw another handful at the kid, some of which hit me in the shin as the other kid ducked and ran.
At this point, any adult would be justified in yelling at this little shit, perhaps addressing him accurately as, "Hey, you little shit," but I was exhausted, breathless, and stunned, and trying to think how to address the kid without profanity and coming up with nothing, and then, THEN I think I hear this, muttered under his breath: "What are you looking at, bitch?" This is possibly the one instance in my life where a hard core dose of happy-feeling endorphins has not served me well, because in that moment I made the decision to let this go because I could already see the bus rounding the corner and I knew that for now at least, the rock throwing had to stop. I gave him an extra dose of glare and memorized his face, but said nothing.
As soon as I picked up running again I regretted it. I should have given that fat little fuck the yell-down hell-ride of his life. I should have humiliated him in front of his peers. I should, at the very least, have gotten his full name and found out which house he came out of. But I did none of that and instead stood in the shower raging and scrubbing and coming up with vicious things to say to a 10-year-old that he would remember for the rest of his life. I even considered making the bus stop a regular installation on my morning routes to head off any more rock throwing and maybe even give my anti-people dog another chance to be scary.
Back when we lived in the last town, my husband gave a kid a yell-down hell-ride for throwing a handful of gravel at our brand new car as he drove down our back alley. He slammed on the brakes, threw it in reverse, and leapt out of the car in his uniform and yelled at the kid, who was trying to mount his bike and escape, to freeze. He then yelled at the kid until he admitted that yes, he'd thrown rocks at the car on purpose, and no his parents wouldn't appreciate that. Then he made the kid ride his bicycle back to his house, and my husband followed him and then told the kid to go inside and get his mom. When she came out, he told the kid, "Either you be a man and tell her why we're here, or I will." The kid fessed up, the mom was embarrassed and apologized and made her kid apologize, and my husband said it was all right, but that if he were a parent, he would want to know if his kid was throwing rocks at people's cars.
Now, I have no idea if the mom then went inside and told her kid, "I'm not mad-- but that's what you get for messing with one of those asshole military guys," and then blew the whole thing off, but I do know that my husband felt a hell of a lot better, and that every time we saw that kid thereafter, he was headed at a full run in the other direction.
Me on the other hand, I'm now thinking about all the times I was bullied, and all the times I did the bullying (mostly to my little brother, which counts double since we'll know each other for the rest of our lives), and I've just got this sick feeling in my stomach for not doing anything. Was it really the exhaustion and disbelief, the hope that surely I'd misheard or misinterpreted the scene I'd stumbled on? Or was is that old kid fear speaking in me, saying that the best way to stay safe was to keep quiet? Either way, I still feel angry and ashamed.
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