My knowledge was only skin deep, but that wasn’t my fault. I blame it on my training. I wore my ignorance with pride, like a distinct and fascinating scar. As I got older I became more and more cranky with all the tattoos muddying up my territory. I wanted to tell people that a picture you like now will disgust you in twenty years. But no one listened. I started losing patients. They didn’t like my attitude. I told them I was tending to their most important, their most intimate organ. Most laughed at me. I began to cut myself.
I’m a novelist, poet, and short story writer living in the Desert Southwest.
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