I can't shake this foggy feeling of floating through the distracted moments of my maligned childhood. Maybe it's the smell of rain in the air, so reminiscent of muggy michigan summers, thunderstorms constantly threatening to unload drenching buckets from the bruised and cranky sky. How can such a blanket of amnesia cause such sorrow and trepidation in my soul? Why is it that things I cannot remember (nor want to) reach out their skeletal fingertips to poke the plump, contented life I have now? Disjointed memories whisper in the darkness, slyly intimating insinuations of spirit and moral fiber and transformations of flesh from girl to woman. I do not like it, I mutter to myself, alone in my apartment, waiting for it to rain.