A Pretty Face Had Been Damaged By

My Daughter Squealed Again And Both Bubba And I Winced. It’s Not An Attractive Sound, That. It’s High-pitched And It Enters Your Ear Canals Like Hot Glass. No Matter How Much I Love My Daughter, I Will Never Love Her Squealing. Or Maybe I Will. Maybe I Do. Driving Down 93, I Realized Once And For All, That I Love The Things That Chafe. The Things That Fill Me With Stress So Total I Can’t Remember When A Block Of It Didn’t Rest On Top Of My Heart. I Love What, If Broken, Can’t Be Repaired. What, If Lost Can’t Be Replaced. I Love My Burdens.

How Am I Supposed To Let You Go, That's All I'm Asking. I Want To Hold You Again, Smell You, And, Yes Too, I Just Want You To Fade. To Please, Please Fade.

She Smiled Darkly And Shook Her Head. 'i'm Not Crazy. I'm Not. Of Course What Else Would A Crazy Person Claim? That's The Kafkaesque Genius Of It All. If You're Not Crazy But People Have Told The World You Are, Then All Your Protests To The Contrary Just Underscore Their Point. Do You See What I'm Saying?

She Was Afraid Of All That And So Much More, But What Terrified Her Most Was Inside Of Her, An Insect Of Unnatural Intelligence Who’d Been Living In Her Brain Her Entire Life, Playing With It, Clicking Across It, Wrenching Loose Its Cables On A Whim.

The World According To Bubba Is Simple - If It Aggravates You, Stop It. By Whatever Means Necessary.