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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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07.29.03, tuesday night

On Sunday, Jimmy and I were still at my parents' house in San Diego, quite angelic, if adamantly atheist.

After dinner, Mummy told us about the time my brother and I had denounced her Murderer because she had slit the throat of a chicken; it was gonna be soup.

I was ten or eleven, my brother not much younger, and according to Jimmy, who has a better memory of my mother’s storytelling (and perhaps that is why I keep him around, because he is much better at retaining essential details), my brother stood next to me, as he was always next to me, and we had pouted, with what my mother called “pretend-sad-face,” our tears "drop-dropping" down.

Mummy felt so bad, she buried the chicken in the backyard and served shrimp for dinner.




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