Do You Have Stairs In Your House?

My grandmother is affectionately known by her beloved spawn as "The Pusher," so styled for her propensity to push food on you day and night and when it's overcast and darling why don't you have a fruit bowl and surely some dessert and I got those Goldfish just for you! If you don't keep a close eye on her, she'll just start making you more food, will you nill you. I have always more or less fit the stereotype that boys are bottomless pits when it comes to food and have never minded that being said of me or saying that of myself. I tell you today friends, I mind it. It has become, in my Ah-Mom's presence, not only tiresome, but borderline offensive. I dare not compare presuppositions on my appetite to the racist, sexist, and other categorical opinions held against groups of people, but I am, for the first time, finding judgments made against my sex and age, and finding them none too shiny. I don't want a damned piece of pie. I just had a fucking huge dinner and I'm god damned full! I don't want to hear about how a boy like me is aaaaalways hungry! I'll tell you when I'm fucking hungry. And I can feed myself for christ's sake!

I got sunburned today. It reminds me of the speech tournament in Salt Lake City where I was irradiated from head to toe and then had to walk all over town in a wool suit. Each step was like a fresh pot of scalding coffee in the lap. And the shoulders. And the back, arms, legs, stomach, and neck. And when I smiled, the face.