They don’t all exactly work, but boy! It’s fun to try ‘em out!
As Stratty was fond of proving every chance he got. Being Stratton’s brother was like playing Piggy in a two-man touring production of Lord of the Flies, with Stratton saving his bravura performances for the big crowds.
“Ashley is a girl’s name! Homo! Why are you hitting yourself? I’m not going to spit on you, I just want to see how close I can get it to your face. If you just whistle, I’ll stop twisting your nipple, come on, all you gotta do is whistle!”
-- AWHOO-AWHOOA-WHOOAHOO-HAHAHA-AWHOOA-HAHAHA! --
That’s the diabolical genius of the titty twister! It makes you laugh even though it hurts! “I thought you were having fun, you were laughing!” There’s no defense against that! And there’s no defense against, “Ashley is a girl’s name,” trust me. There is no known comeback that can distract from the truth of that.
Now, none of this justifies what I’ve done.
I’m not complaining about my name. I know my parents put a lot of thought into the choice. I know they thought a lot because it took at least seven months to name me after I was born. I say, “at least seven months,” because if you look at my birth certificate, you’ll see that it was filed in June, 1972, reporting a “BABY STRAND” had been delivered in November, 1971. Sounds like a fuckin’ candy bar. Or a piano. They didn’t even start the paperwork until seven months after I arrived. Who knows when they came up with this gem of a name?
For a while, I was just known as “Sweet Lightning Baby,” because I arrived five weeks before my due date. So it was my fault, apparently. My birth marks the last time in my life I was ever early or in any way fast or sweet.
I’m not saying my parents doomed me to a life of procrastination or crippled my ability to grow up and assert an individual identity just because I spent the first seven months of my life as “Baby Strand;” but I did write this in my parents’ basement. In Stratty’s old room, that is. See I graduated to his room when he left for college twenty f-f-f-four fucking years ago, yes, in his room I wrote it, with the curtains drawn so I wouldn’t have to labor under the shadow of all his sports trophies, which line every Goddamn inch of the windowsills. I’m not saying anything. I’m not saying anything’s anyone’s fault. I’m just identifying themes right now. Goddamnit!!!