I think this was the first one. It's the oldest one I can find, anyway. Mom says I was about eighteen months old, so as of this posting, this would be approximately forty-eight and a half.
When I was nine, my arch-enemy was a Speckled Sussex rooster named Tootie-Frootie. Whenever I went outside, he’d be waiting. A lot of roosters wanted to kick my ass, but Tootie-Frootie also drove me insane with his shrill, annoying crow. He would follow me around, trumpeting his presence, and I’d chase him, and then he’d … Continue reading Tootie Frootie
I was always your wingman, whether I liked it or not. I got used to it. Whatever insane scheme you came up with, I covered for you, backed you up, because you and I, we were family—sisters in every way that mattered. As children, we could spend hours discussing everything from bigfoot, to the city … Continue reading Wingman
I am Spite. That is my name. Do not doubt me. Enjoy your little walks up my sidewalk, down again, just outside the vire fence. Try not to turn your head, but I am in your eye corner always. Try not to fink about it. Am I a purr-version of the rubber chicken? Am I … Continue reading Friday the Firteenf
When I was little, I had a children’s storybook about the friendship between Mary and her cousin Elizabeth. The one thing that stuck with me was this picture of the two women walking along a street together as, in a tree high above them, a large owl of indeterminate species gazed down at them. That … Continue reading The Awl and the Orm