my life: chapter one.

the reality is that proust can shove his madeleine up his derriere. my maz didnt serve me tea, nor the plump little cookies the frogs call madeleines.

maz served sissy and me cinnamon toast, with a side of guilt. papa played cy coleman records in the background and wrote his equations on the living room walls in purple chalk. we slurped our milk in silence.

the cat, whom we named cocoa for a reason that shouldnt have to be explained, was beautiful, half-siamese, half-tabby, but fond of scratching people. the latter quality won out, in maz's eyes. so we gave cocoa away. or at least they did, while i was at camp. i was notified in the mail. that's how people used to be notified of things.

we grew up fast. across 110th street is a hell of a tester.