Life on the Farm

Everyone here has an MFA or a PhD or some combination of letters that proves they’re smart, and I’m all like, “hi-ya” with my cute little G.E.D. I’m not saying you shouldn’t go to college, because I’m sure it’s a fantastic experience, but I kind of wish my mom and her husband could see me now, since they were such dickhead-bullies about my lack of formal education.

The irony is, if my mom hadn’t left when I was fifteen to marry said husband, I probably would have gone all Ivy League, seeing as that was the track I was on before the great implosion of my childhood.

Although, had that all worked out, I may not have had the life that was brutal enough to warrant the writing of this book — of which an early draft of a sample chapter was submitted, to apply for a prestigious fellowship in Virginia, at the Center for the Creative arts, where I am currently an artist in residence.

Only for a total of two weeks, but four days in and it already feels like this is my whole life. On the farm, surr…