It’s muscle memory at this point, trying my hardest to please the eye of every viewer. I’m eight again, manically coloring within the lines of an adult coloring book, going as far as to shade the edges like a ‘fancy artist’ would, then handing over my paper and waiting for the thrill. The pure satisfaction of watching my parents ooh and ahh over something I made. My satiated hunger for approval when they would say, ‘That deserves a spot on the fridge,’ then take out a magnet from a local dentist, popping the paper right above the ice dispenser.
