Terrible, Terrible Me
You’re a bad seed. A bad egg. You bad, bad apple, you. People can be pretty creative when telling you you’re naughty, especially if said naughty sayings involve food. I’m partial to the apple, so let’s go with that. If I were an apple, I’d be red. A mealy apple, with its skin all bruised russet, the worst gone to smudges of blue-brown. When you bite those ones, even the white flesh is brown, and it tastes like compost heap. You would never want to eat apple-me.
I haven’t always known I’m a terrible person. Not always.
It’s Snow Day at Jupiter First Preschool. Not real snow, of course; they truck in a cartful of shaved ice and dump it out on the Florida-hot asphalt. “Go—play,” the instructor tells us, and I remember this last part humming in my ears, reverberating like the words of God, “but do not throw snow at anyone.
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