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Why else would I need to look up their crappy pictures?
” What would happen if you suddenly found one of them in a wheelchair?
I’m sure it’ll mean more to her than my questionable decision to pelt her with obscure indie spaz rock. The time to visit your family, to give thanks for what you have; your loved ones, your health, your path in life.
An opportunity to return to your old room, to dig through your old stuff, to admit that you’re glad to be outta there. After a while, you find that the schadenfreude has an aftertaste, and it’s not something you expected.
As for me, well, I’m having flashbacks of that one time I accidentally took ‘shrooms laced with bathtub LSD and ran out into traffic on the I-580 yelling “FLESH TETRIS, FLESH TETRIS, EVERYTHING FEELS LIKE MATH, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STOP THE FLESH TETRIS, STOPPIT, HNNNGH” until someone threw a tarp over my head. Wandering through the hazy forest, shivering as the twigs creaked underneath my feet, I came upon a little house that was shaped like a giant snail, with windows illuminated by old-fashioned kerosene lamps.
You find yourself wide awake, dusting off a copy of your junior high yearbook, lit only by the glow of the My Space welcome screen. You think of all the people you’ve met in your life – on a train in London, at a gig in Rome, on the playa at Burning Man, on a photoshoot in Portland, in class, at a roller derby, on LJ, that time you volunteered – and you wonder, is tiny slice of the world the only thing they know? A sense of poetic justice settles on the story you’ve been playing in your head, in which you’re the main character in the universe. Why are you clicking on their pictures, by yourself, in the dark?You type in the first name, hit “Search,” and it begins: Your middle-school tormentors. Yes – the boy who put garbage on your desk grew up to be a garbage man. You try to tell yourself that you only wanted a laugh, but there’s something there.“Does what they did still hurt me, after all these years?Readers, if you’ve ever engaged in this type of “research,” fess up. Bear with the somewhat sluggish posting schedule, folks.We’re slogging through last-minute corrections to the final proofs of Issue 02 and losing our minds in the process. Earlier tonight, poor Nadya sneezed and a big chunk of her frontal lobe fell out.