“When I see children, I feel nothing. I have no maternal instinct…I ovulate sand.”
To say I don’t like children is an understatement. As my boyfriend so aptly put it when explaining to friends, “You know that face you make when you take a sip of water and find out it’s vodka? That’s her face around kids.”
“You’ll never reach the center of an only child’s Tootsie Pop, the layers of narcissism run so deep.”
The hankering for fame like no other started as early as I can remember. I was an only child, so the center of attention simply by default, and I thrived most in climates where I was the focal point of the room. By four or five, I was already destined to be a Rockette at best, a groupie at worst, always discovered by my parents moving wildly in the center of some dance floor filled with drunk adults.
My father stood beside the wilted orange tiger lilies on the side of our house. So small and fragile compared to the grand spectacle in the sky. A meteor shower, a celestial trajectory of cosmic debris. Thousands, bright and fast, cascaded from the infinite galaxy to Earth. Earth, where my father and I stood, awestruck. I squinted to take it all in, despite my poor vision. “You’ll never see this again in your lifetime,” he said. His voice was ominous, echoing off the siding.
I fought to find the features of his face in the dark, grasping the unattainable, like catching a shooting star in a jar for keepsake.