The March Hare

This is how I looked before I was filled with shame, for the poop story my mom chose to tell was the one we call The Disaster of '92. The Disaster began with a reasonably priced Mexican meal, my then-three-year-old brother, and a gas station bathroom. It ends with an enormous quantity of human waste everywhere but the gas station toilet, paper towels, disinfectant, and trash bags bought from the gas station itself, and my brother riding home standing in the back seat of my mom's car, holding on to the headrest. It is important for me to clarify one thing; I did not lock my brother in that bathroom and leave him. The door had an automatic lock on it. I had no choice. And I couldn't just walk out with the key, I had to turn it back in. And I was only ten and could not really deal with that amount of poop.