Dear Diary,

When I was eight, I found a dead squirrel in the backyard at my dad’s house.  I wrapped it in a plastic bag and buried it in the freezer chest in the basement, the freezer chest my brother hid in during hide-and-go-seek, and everyone thought it was hilarious, and no one realized it was dangerous.

Dear Diary,

I sometimes eat butter like it’s slices of cheese, cold butter bitten into.  After the bad thing happened when I was 12, I ate a whole pound of cold butter.

Dear Diary,

When I was 13, I remembered about the squirrel and put it in a pot on the stove when no one was home.  I boiled until all that was left was bones.

I put the dried bones in a manila envelope dear diary.

Dear Diary,

I’ve been having dreams where my teeth are falling out.

Dear Diary,

Sometimes, while driving in a car, I get the urge to open the door and tumble out into the night.

Dear Diary,

I moved out when I was 17, and I took the envelope of squirrel bones with me.  I moved again when I was 19 and again at 20, unpacking the envelope into the top shelf of the most far-away cupboard in every house as though I knew what the bones were supposed to be.