Dad

My dad sent me a giant box of Lindsay memorabilia. It was fun to go through but even more than that it showed what a vanity my memory is. A lot of what was inside the box I didn't remember and had to keep checking for my name to make sure it really was mine, and not my sister's or my brother's. I like to walk around puffed up that I remember more than anyone, that I am in charge of what made me, but I don't, I'm not.

And apparently, I've been writing my entire life. The box had a bunch of little books I'd written as a child. Perhaps I'll read one at the first Quickies reading.

Grad school is coming to its end. I feel happy and proud about this but am squashing any hope with my iron fists.

What's next?