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"Heart Shaped"
The worst part about doing acid with my Mom was how affectionate she became. When you're fifteen, you don't want your parents getting all mushy, or, much less, having a complete breakdown in front of you. My mother wasn't affectionate at other times, so it was unusual at first, but I got used to it, and sometimes I even looked forward to it, because I knew she was loving herself more in the process. At least that's how my own fifteen-year- old, tripped-out mind justified things, magnified things. And I always knew when it was coming—two hours into our trip, and after the second or third joint. Slowly I would see my whole life flash before her eyes, and she'd melt into this heart-shaped form, with her hands folded under her chin in the shape of a heart. Then everything else about her became heart-shaped: her face and the arch of her eyebrows narrowing down to her pointy chin; her torso over the top of her breasts descending to the "v" of her crotch. The shape of her lips seemed to follow suit and then she would gleefully, and somewhat self- consciously, mouth the words, "I love you, honey," with all of her body parts, and all of her hearts, beating and puls- ing the sentence out loud. And the word "honey" would drip all over me, as I tipped back into the letter "v" and reclined and relaxed inside of the word "love."
—Karen Vargas
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