By Leo Milmet

 

I’ve been called a liar.

A bit excessive.

A weak little weasel who has just gotta toughen up.

A cold-hearted young man with a face of stone.

A slave to my fears.

A bitter soul.

I’ve been asked “What the hell is wrong with you?” countless times.

I’ve been unfavorably compared to the accommodation-needing, annoying kid in the car who constantly asks “Are we there yet?”

I’ve been told, by well-intentioned people, “Mine is different. You wouldn’t have a problem with mine.”

 

 

All I said was,

“I’m afraid of dogs.”

 

Editor: Peter Kadel