When people ask me to write about myself I let the cursor blink
for much too long. Nothing interesting here except
this medicine, that scar, these failures on a biochemical
level. I’ve got sparks in my deep white matter, jumpy neurons,
genetic mutations, click, bang. Qualifications: perfectly organized
bookshelves, luminous fingers, and once I extinguished a grease fire
all by myself. We’ve all got different definitions of adulthood,
anyway, and mine is this: I am whole but only on the outside,
I can get to sleep by 3 AM if I really try, I can paint a fire using only
red and yellow. I can choose, mother, an orange at the supermarket.
I can sense, professor, the vibrations of my subatomic particles.
At this point a treatment becomes a trait. This molecule a person.