I always had that sense of being censored for the things that I thought. Why is it wrong to embroider your pants, or paint with acrylics on your clothing? Why is that weird? Isn't it weirder to want to be like everyone else?
These were the lovely bones that had grown around my absence: the connections-sometimes tenuous, sometimes made at great cost, but often magnificent-that happened after I was gone. And I began to see things in a way that let me hold the world without me in it. The events that my death wrought were merely the bones of a body that would become whole at some unpredictable time in the future. The price of what I came to see as this miraculous body had been my life.
I went to church irregularly and was mostly reading comics in the pew.
I wanted to be the moron of the family, because morons seemed to have more fun, more freedom and more personality.
I find talking about my work harder than it might be if honesty wasn't my calling card.
I was like I was in science class: I was curious.
