The Day of the Jackhole

The Day of the Jackhole

Celebrating 40 years on this earth

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1971. Commence jackholery.

November 5, 2011 —

I am born. There is no memory of this in my brain. Here is a photograph. Scrawny and whiney. A shock of hair and scrunched up face. My brother is holding me as we are posed in a pink pedal car. The car is called a SCAMP! Oh happy day! The magical daughter comes home for the first time.

Look at the three-year-old brother. He is obviously overjoyed. Baby sister! That’s ace!

He’s wearing a blue safari-type suit and has perfectly combed blonde hair with a ginger tinge. That hair will go red, red, red. Just not right now.

He looks happy. He doesn’t know it yet, but think might be the last day for a long time that he will grin in this way. His name is Michael. His innocence will be his downfall. Though I look docile and dumb, I’m already taking note of his pain points. Filing this information away. In his Downfall Dossier.

I am a total jackhole of a baby.

My dad puts it differently:

“You were a bugger of a kid.”

Scorpios. We’re wound up wrong, right from the get-go.

 


Born in 1971?

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