That night I dreamed of turduckens.

It's easier to revise lousy writing than to revise a blank sheet of paper.

T.S Elliot was wrong. My world ended with a bang the minute we entered the Compound and the silver door closed behind us. The sound was brutal. Final.

That night I dreamed of turduckens.

I would have rather had a dad with change jingling in his pocket; one who would have spent the last forty minutes of the world raking leaves for his kids to jump in, so that they perished in one loud, bright instant, giggles still bubbling up from their bellies, never suspecting a thing. Yeah, well. Tough luck, rich boy.

Yeah, well, wish in one hand, crap in the other, and see which fills up first

My dad was never one of those dads you could ask for a quarter if you saw a gumball machine. Instead he had one of those black American Express cards not available to general public. Gumball machines didn’t have slots for those.