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October 4, 2009
It's sometime pre-New Jersey, so I must be under five, and my mom is either cramming soap into my mouth or sprinkling pepper onto my tongue, because apparently my use of filthy language demands drastic action. Although I'm not thrilled with this punishment, I don't dare tell my mom it's really not as terrible as she thinks. I mean, after all, am I not the kid who eats the gloopy white paste off the plastic stick attached to the lid, bits of Naugehyde off the sofa's arms, and enough of my own finger flesh to warrant calling it a snack?