You are 7 going on 8. You touch everything you see. You want everything you touch. Your mom says, 'please put that back,' as she pulls it out of the buggy and hands it back to you. You become a terrorizer. To every other kid you see holding a toy, you say, 'you're not getting that.' The other towheaded boy is told the same thing by his mother. You stick your tongue out at him reminding him that you use your tongue to taste. He tastes your pain. Your mom lets you go in the men's room alone. All of the urinals are too high. Your stall's toilet rim is covered in Mountain Dew colored piss and short curly hairs. You wonder how someone's hair could get way down there. You drop your blue jeans to your ankles and have fun peeing everywhere except in the toilet. You pull out some of your hair and sprinkle it around. Someone wrote on the stall's wall, CALL 843 230 2088 FOR A GOOD TIME. You wish you had a cell phone.
