It should come as no surprise that I’m a bundle of nerves. I
was raised by a bundle of nerves. From the time I was born, my father was
feverishly intent on imparting to me one, all-encompassing lesson: life is full
of danger. Life, according to my father, consisted entirely of electrocution,
puncture wounds, rattle snake bites, and vehicular homicide. Being
pathologically anxious by nature, he saw his children’s activities as nothing
but preludes to hospitalization. He saw the world as a mass of rusty nails and
combustible liquids, and his offspring as a gaggle of hyperactive mental
defectives, who would swallow fishhooks or lock themselves in abandoned
refrigerators for fun. He had splints
and peroxide ready at all times.
