Brent Staples Narrative

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It was 8th grade, and I was almost a highschooler. Almost a highschooler! And I couldn’t believe I was being treated like a toddler still learning to walk.
Not even a year ago, my friends and I were bunched around the cafeteria table, making a can of Pringles have its lid burst off with a pop by smashing the once chip-filled container. Just another day at Madison. Firing the lid at each other, and just goofing around, we were having fun.
Poof! and the lid went flying, this time landing in front of Ishmael.
“Do you think you can handle that?” queried a voice, coming from behind me, high and condescending.
“Handle what?” suddenly became the million-dollar question.
“Do you think you can handle that,” the woman pointed at our now lidless
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Why do some people just despise fun? Time

My grandmother, Carolyn. She’s not my real grandmother, not by blood, but she is still my grandma. She’s very old, I would say. So old that her back creaks, she has to walk with a cane, and her hands are a shrinkwrapped bag of bones, veiny and old.
She made me realize that you can have a lot life, but not without giving something up for it.
I don’t want to become old and fragile, or to need help using the restroom and getting dressed. She’s paid in many ways for her old age, giving up the wellness of her body to the only god I know of, and his name is Time. Or it’s a girl, and her name is she. It’s probably neither.
Carolyn has it. She can’t remember jokes told only minutes ago, or even who my mom is. I can’t stand to visit her, as horrible as it sounds. It’s just too sad, too unfortunate. To see the aftermath of a personality being utterly demolished by time… it’s crushing. I never really knew Carolyn, she was my mom’s mom’s friend, and she was the only person my mom had when she moved back to Oregon after thirteen hot, miserable years in
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