No, not my memories, not even Ken Burns’ memories, but I keep them around. In a rare confessional moment, I showed the scrapbook to you. My tears were real, and they made the whole thing believable. Crying, with the remote control under my ass the whole time, while you failed to detect any of the numerous incongruities in the scant narrative. How could I have been in two places at once? Impossible, you fool.
Got you, didn’t I? Got you as good as a clown scare. Then again, maybe you were playing dumb out of courtesy. After all, it was my house, they were my rules, my dreams; and you were my guest. If that was the case, thank you.
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