Introduction - From Chaos: The Burning Years
An open letter to you, beautiful reader.
Dear Reader,
I used to pee my pants a lot.
One particular day in the first grade, I peed them real bad. And I was wearing a great outfit, too. Way better than my usual shtick. I MATCHED. This was VERY hard for a kid in the 80s, who had seven brothers and two sisters, to pull off. I matched in a white tank top and a white pair of shorts covered in black polka dots.
Obviously, a pair of white shorts with tiny black polka dots are not ideal for pants-peeing. But I was no quitter. I was not going to a) admit to my teacher I peed my pants, or b) sacrifice my look.
So what was my move? I went to a bathroom stall, reached my little six-year-old hand around the yellow piss area and did a wad-scrunch-twist-shove, followed by smashing my itty-bitty thighs together. This shortened the length of my shorts by a solid few inches. Six-year-old logic made me sure that no one would call me out. I waddled bravely like a penguin for the rest of the day.
The audacity of writing a book feels even more vulnerable and weird. Way beyond what six-year-old logic can justify. It’s asking much more of me than to sacrifice an outfit. It’s more like un-smashing my itty-bitty thighs and letting the piss-covered polka dots hang out. It fees like then inviting you to examine the pee spot with me, while crossing my fingers that you will somehow find it fascinating.
“What patterns do we notice, class?”
“Yeah, there’s a smell, but stay with me!”
But I’m still doing it.
I’m doing it for so many reasons. None of them have to do with changing the world. Or saving the world. Or thinking the world needs another story like mine. Been there, got knocked on my ass by that—much less virtuous now (or more, depending on how you look at it….you know what? Let’s leave virtue out of it).
My story? I’m telling it so that I can let it go, and so that it can let go of me. I’m telling it so I don’t have to waddle anymore.
Before I do, though—
I need you to know a few more things.
