When I was ten years old, I opened my sack lunch at Teen Ranch Daycamp and found an Olive Loaf Baloney Sandwich.    I love Baloney Sandwiches.  And I hate Olive Loaf Baloney.  Hate-hate. And worse?  I had made this very clear to my parents.  Many times.

So I cried: I was inconsolable.  My counselor, Beth Hornbeck, offered to trade her Peanut Butter sandwich for my desecration-in-a-plastic-bag, but she was missing the point. This betrayal was not just about lunch.  It was about a larger sense of destiny.

I had a sense that I was officially a tragic figure.  When I re-read Tom Sawyer as an adult, I knew exactly how Tom felt listening in on his own funeral.  I thought back to day camp and the hundreds of similar moments since.  There is an exquisite particularity in being aware of one’s own tragic destiny.

A few years later I hand-wrote and circulated an underground soap opera that thinly disguised many of my peers and many teachers and administrators acting in outsized, inappropriate, soap-operatic ways in the hypothetical future.  This earned me a trip to the principal’s office of my Fundamentalist Christian School.  At this moment I recognized that I was really on to something and purposed to never give up story-telling.

So there you have it.  A passionate storyteller with an over-wraught sense of nothing-to-lose.  You should probably bookmark this page, close your browser window, and never come back.


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