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Issue 14
I was an accident

in the way a two-car collision, an SUV sideswiping a taxi, where the cab driver gets a broken nose, the passenger dies, and the SUV, the instigator, is left unscathed save for future financial suckage, in the way that this collision would be described as an accident. Not an on purpose, not a planned baby, though my mother likes to say we were talking about having you, but she just says this to be nice, because who wants a broken nose? And by broken nose I mean I hurled a bottle of floor cleanser at her back, call her a C-U-Next-Tuesday on a regular basis, and, as if that was not enough, wrote poems about her as though I was the victim. Of course she couldn’t have known this would happen, when I arrived so suspiciously Asian. My father stared at the male nurse in fury until my skin reddened (never to cool). Now, looking back on it, he calls me an expensive baby, saying this typically when I have just asked for $320 because I really need it. Oh there were good things of course. Every accident gives someone a story to tell, the shaken passerby with their elaborate hand gestures (think: my sister in therapy). And once my mother and I picked dandelions and blew their seeds at each other as the world around us yellowed from a setting sun. Or when my just-woken father wore the pastel barrettes I had placed so carefully in his hair to pick up our pizza at Jerry’s, and came home laughing about my antics instead of punching a hole in the wall. But there I go again—trying to get the biggest piece of the trauma pie. It would be better if I were honest with you. We’ll get out the charts, the mini cars, the State Farm agent, and determine fault here. It’s going to be a long one. If I were you, I’d grab a chair.