Muna Sealy, My Life

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Visitors were special occasions for me when I was 10. If anyone knocked on our door, I was always the first to answer. I'd reasoned that someone had to be the host at our house. It was a difficult, sometimes unrewarding task, but I knew I could handle the job. Gracefully, I accepted the responsibility of being the guide for our guests. I was a precocious little shit. The grand tour would begin on the top floor. There, I would blankly note the rest of my family's bedrooms. I figured that since they didn't interest me, I wouldn't have a chance at making my guests interested. From there, we would proceed down into the kitchen (“See the water jug? Dad gets ice from the golf course and lets it melt, so the water is always cold”), down the stairs into the basement (“Watch your head, I hit my head almost everytime coming down here”), and into my room. Animated by pride, I would go into an extended discourse on all my cool stuff, noting with severe intensity my collection of video game magazines—a gift from my Grandfather (“Gamepro is ok, I guess. EGM is way better, though. They get three different people to do the reviews so you can get a really good idea of whether a game is good for whatever”). The magazines were far out of date, but that didn't make me any less proud of the fact that I had such a massive collection. By that point, I would have neglected to show off the living room, the den, the bathrooms, and the porch. Still, I would make it abruptly clear that we'd hit all

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