My friend Beth always asks me why I call us circus people.
I always answer that it’s quite obvious, but for Beth the obvious always eludes her like sympathy for a much maligned devil.
I’ve always felt the most at home on the Island of Misfit Toys because the lower your expectations are the more likely you are to dance successfully beneath the limbo stick.
My uncle Marc told me recently no one he asked had a single, good thing to say about me and my only response to that is consider the source and how you can never trust a racist especially one who throws their own people under the senior bus and then goes on their merry way.
All my life I’ve been misunderstood because I always call it exactly how I see it with no rose tinted lenses to obscure my view from the cheap seats.
My father once told me I was a survivor and I still hold so dearly onto those words because it’s the one and only time he actually was there for one of his children without first thinking of himself.
I’m Jewish and Sicilian which means I’ll kill you and then feel guilty about it later or even better make someone else feel guilty as I go out for New Year’s at any Chinese restaurant that will still have me.
Circus people are just like any other people on this planet meaning they wipe both their mouths and their asses before finally calling it quits and getting into the fetal position.
My dad has always had a thing for fruitcake and circus peanuts two things most people cannot abide and that’s okay because most people cannot stand me the first time they meet me until they realize I’m the only game in town and they best pony up before all the seats are sold and you’re left standing in a Roman Colosseum of your own meager devising.