history is a timeline of appetite.  I have rubber bands at the ready for when my mother yawns.  I cover my baby brother like a grenade.  he was born without the potential for further muscle tone.  father calls what I do context.  I appear like a bruise into a delayed game of hot potato.  my sister’s hands are an oven mitt’s dream.  I know you’re a hitchhiker and your girlfriend a cannibal but here we **** our thumbs.