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(My) Marginalia

I don’t know how to change a flat tire. I don’t know how to hem my pants.

I’m too lazy to split my laundry by colors (everything gets washed all at once). I’ve been kicked out of bars for starting fights. I’ve stolen only one thing in my life.

I like pandas. And I don’t use bookmarks.

Turtles are comforting; frogs give me hope. Boxing is incredibly sexy, ultimate fighting massively homoerotic, and the body is a thing both vulgar and fascinating.

(I am attracted to conservative stability; danger is unexciting, tattoos are too much, and the fringe is an edge I cannot approach).

These are my margin notes; this is my marginalia. These are my little things; these are my details. The sum of them is something, technically not quite equal to me, but oft times more, and some times just enough. Never minor, though.

(I write notes in the margins of my books. I never read them.)


About Quinn

In it but not of it. A reformed player, now watcher. Speaker of raw truths.


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Raison d’etre

"Raw," she said. "I want something primal. I want something bare and naked. I want you to give me this life raw, unbidden, unhidden, free, fair, and true. Can you do that? Can you do that for me?"

One may only try.

March 2013
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