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Mid-Cradle Crisis
When the doctor
Took an ultrasound of me
I was sucking my thumb
Years passed
Now six
My parents
Determined
To keep all sticky, subway touching fingers away from my lips
So they promised me a guitar
I imagined
My saliva free hand strumming that glorious instrument
As wailing crowds roared my name
And I after years of work listening to Sesame Street would finally become a star
I waited
Preoccupying
Myself with dinosaur chicken nuggets and broken Cheerios
Until my mom gifted me my earnings
A no strings
All electric
Barbie guitar
Which repeatedly played the crackled chorus of Girls Just Want To Have Fun
When my mother walked away I hid that pink piece of nonsense under the couch
Slumped in my torn faded Elmo chair
And plopped my thumb in its rightful place
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Writing has always represented to me this idea of being completely limitless. Where other sectors of my life were painfully restrictive, writing seemed to be utterly infinite, edgeless, and unending in what I could produce and discover within my own mind. Whether I was flipping through the pages and plots of paperbacks or obsessively scribbling on three-ringed notebooks I always loved finding foreign worlds and past centuries to explore. There was something about completely disappearing into a character or concept that was extremely liberating. Writing always symbolized this rare mixture of productive escapism, a mentality, and approach which I have attempted to apply to my life as a whole. I’d like to become a novelist when I’m older because I want to create those places and people for others. Books and storytelling gave me an atmosphere where I felt like I wasn’t alone, and I hope to create a similar community for others through my writing.