The stories of my childhood make me laugh, and they hurt too. On one of those stupid half-cloudy days in south Seattle, just outside my sister's room, my cousins zipped me up in a sleeping bag. By the time I got out, flustered, pissed, arms flailing like a retard's run, they had the suitcase waiting. I'd never been locked in a suitcase before. And I wonder if the pain is because the small suitcase cramped me, or because they conceieved of my torture at all.
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