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  • The day my Scholastic book order finally came in was the day before Thanksgiving. This was perhaps the most eagerly awaited book order of my life because I had ordered an instructional facepaint book. And it came with facepaints!

    Five waxy crayons that smelled like cod liver oil. Red, white, black, yellow and green were the colors. It was a big let down because the crayons were only slighly better at marking up my face than crayolas would have been. A lot of pressure was required and entire chunks of the stick would ball up and leave a trail under my eye. I wondered initially why all the designs in the book were so simple. Did they think I was a baby or something? But I knew why once I tried to carve the crayons into my own face, it was nearly impossible to do something so terribly complex as a turkey.

    But I did it. No one in my family could guess what I was suppossed to be or guess what was wrong with my face that day.
    I had to tell them, "I'm a turkey."

    Again, verism was held in the highest regard. The turkey didn't talk much that holiday, as it was a solumn day of reflection for the turkey. When Grandpa started to cut my brother into bits and pieces I stood still right next to the butchery, eyes watering and quivering my lower lip.

    "Whatsa matter, eh?" I remember my Grandpa asking me.

    I nodded at the turkey, but no one understood my situation or meaning.


    As I ate the salty meat of my fallen kin I also tasted the fishy wax of my own graffitti'd face. I critiqued my unscuccessful act in silence.
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