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October 3, 2017

i have no first-hand memories of my father,
he died when i was about 3 years old. my
then married an old family friend,
Otto, who really was old--older than her by
27 years. everyone thought he was my
grandfather, which was embarrassing.
childhood in general was embarrassing--
immigrant parents with funny accents, never
enough money to feel secure, being the new
kid time and again as we moved in search of
better schools and cheaper rents. boo hoo hoo.
shortly after the biggest downgrade move yet,
12-year-old me stepped out of the shower with
a towel wrapped around my skinny waist to see
cops in the living room escorting Otto out the
door. he was leaving us and as a precaution his
adult daughters by a previous marriage--yes, my
evil step-sisters--had called for backup. the way
my mother was flipping out, i can't say they
were unjustified. mom really might have
scratched his face off and
i probably would've
cheered her on.
we were both
feeling pretty
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