March 27, 2006

In the fast-food joint at noontime, I showed my prowess by biting into forks. I have this fierce set of teeth that can slice through plastic, and this so awed the elderly couple across from us that they couldn’t stop staring.

Afterwards, I started getting confessional. “This violence … it all goes back to my childhood.”

“I remember being in kindergarten and having to recite a short poem about bears. Just five lines. Hell, they even gave me a teddy bear to hold.”

“Most of the kids had no problem reciting their lines, and in return received smiles and applause. I, however, grew terribly bored with the whole thing — I wanted to be different. So when it came my turn, I started howling and kicking the shit out of that bear. I clawed at it, cried, shouted, spit, trembled, and kicked. Little people are capable of so much cruelty. The teacher ran to calm me down, and in return I bit her arms and kicked her shins as my parents quietly snuck out the back.”

“Since then, surprisingly little has changed,” I assured her. Laura reached over to touch my face and I quetly bit into her fingers.