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I lie about my youth. There was enough chaos and drama in it that it is easy for things to slide into the vast sulcal chasms which riddle my mind. There are momentary, half-formed images that pop up from time to time (did we really have a cat using a perpetual hole in its head?) Such as Lovecraftian phantasms that exist in a fictive space somewhere between embellishment and truth. Part of the, undoubtedly, comes in my father's work in experimental cinema. Luckily, though my memory may not be the sharpest, the relatively objective record that really does exist confirms that one incident did really happen. I was somewhat unlike many of the other children at the private school in which my mother had enrolled me, and where I would be a student from age two 1/2 during the fifth level. Sometime their parents were normally still married, mine'd divorced around the time I started pre-kindergarten. My family was not destitute by any means, however, it appeared that we were at a lower income bracket compared to many of my peers. Along with their parents certainly did not party the way mine did. My mother, ever the conscientious parent, could invite over her firecracker of a drinking friend and down Cuba Libres deep into the night while my sister and I amused ourselves by watching Animal House. My dad was an active user of marijuana, something that he never tried to hide from his children. He dwelt in the home he and my mother had assembled together; and impressive log cabin on the most distant 63 acres they could find. He had selected to decorate the lengthy drive (over a mile away from the street, using a serpentine course and catastrophic craters littering the manner) with bleached animal skulls, rusty chainsaw blades, and vehicle hoods tagged wit...