When I read Davka Deer Girl's blog this morning, I remembered what it was like to grow up, remember my heritage; poor southerners, grit eating poor ass ex-communcated divorced catholic skitzophencs.

Every burger and french fry excursion turns into an Americanism consisting of shit food and shit values (however clever or harmless he sees it)...

fucking hell I feel furious. He has no clue what it feels like to eat koolaid popsicles and spaghettios every night for dinner or to walk around barefoot all summer, to have a real drunken family BBQ wth soul music, ex con cousins, and no one fucking mentions the damned coke, the least of our worries. Paris has no idea, more to the point, and I'm beginning to feel like an imposter. Not the crafty kind either.