Moms rock because...they save all our old crap

So I was asked for an interview this week what some of the first stories I wrote were, and I remembered that there's this cardboard box in the closet...

*many hours later, lying on the floor of my office covered in dust and the residue of shattered dreams, which smells kind of like Jean Naté*

Such a strange feeling to read things you haven't seen in more than thirty years. Also, major realization that my daughter is exactly like me when I was in third grade. I had some odd notion that I was classy and mature. Uh, no.

So cute. How do I put this gently, kid? Sorry, but you're going into journalism. For a long, long time.

I typed my early masterpieces on an old Corona.

Note to nine-year-old self: If you're going to openly plagiarize C.S. Lewis, you should at least add some zombies. We'd be rich by now.

And fast-forward to...let's take a wild guess and say, fourteen? All I remember is staring at the ceiling and listening to Pink Floyd's The Wall. Over. And. Over.

Still with me? Why do I have a feeling I've lost 99.9% of my audience at this point? Even my mother walked out about half an hour ago, claiming an urgent dental appointment. Anyway, that pretty much concludes our journey down memory lane. I have a lot more fart material (and I mean a lot), but I decided to be selective and include only the very best jokes and artwork. Next week's post: First attempt at a full-length novel, aka How to Use Every Single Adjective and Adverb Known to Man in a Single Run-On Sentence.