On my third birthday, my father, in an attempt to get me to stop sucking my thumb, gave me a gun. “Today son, you are a man,” he said, snatching the little blue binky from my little pink hand. So I shot him.
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Mort Morte: “A quart of Edward Gorey, a pint of Carl Sandberg, another pint of Dylan Thomas, two tablespoons of A.A. Milne”
“I loved it. You will too, unless you’re already dead.” – Laura Schulman