Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch . . .

Today I cherry bombed my hair. And the tub. And my fingernails. And my neck. And my ears.

Maybe you can blame Rainbow Brite–we were born in the same year, and I grew up thinking that life was not complete without splashes of bright, garish color (also without talking horses). Maybe it's all my big sister's fault, because one day when I was eleven, I came home and the whole house smelled like artificial grape, and my sister was soaking the long strands of her hair in a cup of boiling Kool-Aid. ...