Michael Marano, 129 TCCS
I touched my finger to my nose to remember whether or not I had already washed my face. It slid faster and was greasier than the oiled up milk belly of a drunk on life 6-year-old at the bottom of a slip-n-slide. Grossed out by my own being, I used a bucket to pour water over my face from the trash can that is kindly referred to as my shower and scrubbed with the $1 face wash from the shop next door. Every morning as I dry my feet and try to pat the front of my shirt and pants off with a towel, I tell myself that the next day I will remember to wash my face before putting on all of my clothes. Yet, every morning I still end up going to school looking like a toddler who is trying to graduate from a…
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