I’m not overly fond of the word, “slice.” I never say slice. Not a slice of pizza or a slice of pie. It’s always a piece.
“Splice” is okay but remove the “p” and it’s out of the question. I never slice anything either. I cut shit. Not often with surgical precision.
This also may be the dumbest thing I’ve ever wrote. Or written. Depending on your grammar.
It’s not the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. That would be when I was holding a lit firecracker, blew it out, and made the mistake of thinking I was good.
These are the kinds of things I think about when I don’t have any real life struggles.
When I was a kid living in a little town in Iowa, our neighborhood, our street, our house they all felt like home to me. I always felt secure, always felt like I belonged. My life was feature complete on that block.
I’m sure it was because that house on Allison Avenue in Ottumwa was the only place I’d ever lived, the only home I’d ever known. That street just a single block long was the center of my whole universe.
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