People say that bloggers/newsletter writers have to offer their readers something of value. There are 942 Stories on here that you can escape from this crazy world into and discuss with other readers. If that isn’t worth way more than 60 bucks , I don’t know what anything’s worth. We aren’t even sure how much longer real humans are going to be allowed to write.
She was 6’5” at 16, and they called her Pegenstein.
She never read the book that inspired her nickname, and probably never would. It was just a name, but it was an affliction too.
Cheers roared down from the bleachers when she made shots, almost always from close range, and she learned early they weren’t for her so much as they were for a concept, a color, school pride, whatever that was.
She was 16, and signing autographs, and posing for pictures. Her aunts brought their friends, unannounced to meet her, and all she could do was picture a lion in a zoo cage.
Kids made posters of her with a giant forehead and fuses in her neck, and chanted the nickname. She couldn’t stop them years ago when it was a tease, she wouldn’t ask them to stop now, when it was an homage.
She’d take one of the scholarships she was offered, because her mother would be thrilled, and do her four year penance, get a degree and move on.
She was on a ride she never asked for, going places she didn’t want to be, and she didn’t know how to stop it.
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