Took a bite out of the grand salami as rent came due for the first time since the accident of seven or twenty lifetimes–it didn’t have the forgiving click I’d once known it to have, nor the pallid complexion to which I’d become accustomed. Kept taking bites, not knowing what to expect (consistently finding myself disappointed with the mediocrity).

Memory coats your experiences with an obscuring lacquer, tossing them into a vortex where they’re perfectly preserved as imperfect accounts. Rarely are they ever challenged in your own mind, they prefer to kick around the temporal realm and surface as nostalgia from time to time.

Before I’d been rudely jolted back into reality by a new salami experience, I was content to reminisce on the superb quality of the last one. But was it really that special? That hallowed bite came on the same day as my nephew’s graduation from that college prep they’re all raving about these days, so perhaps I allowed myself to override the underwhelming sausage experience with fondness for another scenario that happened at roughly the same time. Whatever the case, I’m going to lay off the cured meats for a while.

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