When I was little, my parents dragged us to Cape Cod to suffer a hot summer in a cabin without air conditioning.
I cheatcoded the diner’s Galaga game out of infinite lives.
But couldn’t keep from them forever.
Out at the beach, the cheap suntan lotion washed off, and I sunburned my calves horribly.
Instead of taking me to a clinic, they forced me to crawl everywhere like an animal.
Made worse by a performance of Annie Oakley by the local amateur theatre group.
When I cried from the pain, they’d smack me.
“Don’t make a scene,” the serpents hissed.