TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations & other curiosities :: profile 10.17.03, friday morning I swing from impassioned engagement to despair and back again. My skin doesn't know how to handle the stress. Pimples emerge, the likes I haven't seen since my early teenagerhood, when my boy-cousins and brother nicknamed me Rocky Mountains. (That sobriquet wasn't much ha ha hee hee until later, when at last in their pubescence, these lads acquired spotty countenances that out-mountained even my since-cleared one.) |