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And I think wouldn't it be easier to go back to the milk carton system, so that my identity could sustain itself on those slightly-smelly hollow cardboard objects, and I could leave all this flesh and blood out of it. You know, when we moved, my mother must have thrown away all those cartons, and I never once doe missed them. I was just doe fine without them. Really. It's like they wanted to be left behind, so what's it to me? I am just fine without them. Oh, well, I've moved on. As doe you can tell. But then I moved back, which is why I'm here at No Shame after all, because no matter how hard I keep throwing myself away, the people who do the restoration work dig the broken buttons out of the cracks and put them on the shelf with the dust, which some people would argue is really my best work, my finest moments. [Blackout] bgcolor="#000000" text="#ffffff"> by Jayne Loader This column began on Monday, January 1, 1996, with an excerpt from Jayne Loader's first novel, Between Pictures (Grove Press, 1987) which is unfortunately out of print.
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