But looking at photos of myself from that senior year I now realize I actually was cute enough to warrant their attention, and this was the afternoon in 1981, at the bar in Trumps on a Wednesday, sipping a Greyhound cocktail, when I began to fully sense its formation, and when this consciousness about myself—that never really bloomed because of so much insecurity and self-abnegation—was beginning its struggle to accept itself and grow.
