I've missed deadlines for strange reasons before; and I still swear to God that I'll be done with my work in time to put out the word, both textually and aurally, about the impending anniversary of the Three Mile Island accident. But some bizarre shit has been intervening in the research and reporting process this go-round. I'm a remarried father whose children have grown into interesting young adults, but my daughter, whom I call 'Cakes,' evinces an attitude toward the world--basically 'no limits, thanks very much'--that her mother refuses to tolerate any longer.
Thus, I find myself with custody, at least for now, of a 16 year old senior who is smart enough to have skipped two grades, sophisticated enough to think about many things in a powerfully adult fashion, and arrogant and 'untouchable' enough to be constantly on the verge of spinning utterly out of control. Just recently, I 'rescued' her from a sleepover nightmare, the upshot of which was grand theft, angst, and a barely suppressed rage among all and sundry at the party, who were uniformly suspicious of everyone else there.
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