I am afraid. I am afraid. I am afraid. Despite the wide-stretched smile and big mascara-encrusted eyes, I am nothing. But the embodiment of fear. At least for, today, that is. This isn’t a new phenomenon, either. It struck me yesterday, in the late evening, that fear has been my baseline for the past ten years. "What are you so afraid of?" My guardian angel Sharon, a cool blonde, who smokes mentholated cigarettes, and lives in the sensible midwest, asked me the other night. She magically appeared in my bathroom, uninvited (that’s what I get for leaving the window open). Her gold-gilded wings were freshly polished, her square-shaped acrylic nails were filed extra sharp, her pleated khakis appeared to have been steamed and pressed to perfection.
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