I was a fire-stoker, stock broker, scheduled joker, chain smoker, secret-cloaker, faux-Baroquer, super soaker.

I drove home feeling wicked with my wicked smile. I seem to be under the impression that I am up to no good. In reality, I am unequivocally fair. My idea of mischief is knocking over an empty bottle with my shoe or swinging a stick at a distant object. In reality, I hurt fly nor flea. I'm not up to anything. I'm only five-foot-three. I just want to sit behind tinted glass and stare because I know that my thoughts cannot be read. Human evolution hasn't taken us that far ... Or has it?

As a contributor, I feel incredibly unfazed. As a distributor, I feel like an exotic insect - colorful and new, but disgusting. An insect is an insect. Don't waste your time denying that you dislike insecto-me. Let's swat her out with your creased-over newspaper or crush her with that big guy's big boot. Yuck! A bug!

I read and write for someone and something else.
Everything I do is for someone and something else.
Is that unhealthy? Am I breathing in toxins? Is this a trap?

Boy, what an annoyance.
Where's my allowance?
Bare feet and fire ants.

Come marching, one by one.

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