After seeing an online video that documented one of my live performances, my day-job boss started treating me like so many squares of toilet paper, abused to rect-ify tender skin after birthing an insolent, steroidally-massive mud baby. When he admitted his provocation, I took the video down from Vimeo, along with implicating text, and then I grovelled for weeks.
At the same time, an estranged cousin, who serves as a police officer in Bridgeport, messaged me through Facebook after seeing my profile photo. He cautioned me to take the image down as he was concerned that it would preclude my receiving great job offers… as if merely that one photo stood in the way of my becoming Managing Director of Endless Breadstick Distribution at Olive Garden.
But without potential for global humiliation, my flame flickered and I developed a pronounced glabellar wrinkle. I also became constipated, but that’s another story, and maybe unrelated.
Thankfully, my shame transfigured into benignly violent rage, and thus a scar is born and this space at which you might poke and prod her, erected.