Looking back, I was destined to be a writer. In first grade, we had centers we had to rotate between, some fun and some academic. Whenever we had a free choice, I would choose the writing center. I was the only one who ever willingly selected writing over coloring or playing with blocks, but I enjoyed writing little stories by myself.

I was always encouraged and complimented on my stories at the time, but as I read them back nearly twenty years later, I am embarrassed. I mean VERY embarrassed. I mean SUPER very embarrassed.

Here's a story I wrote in second grade. Should I be concerned that my teacher couldn't spell "adoreable" (sic)? I didn't know the difference between "to" and "too" still, so it probably didn't matter much.

(click the "essay" to enlarge)
I mean, I mean, I mean. I meant a lot of things apparently. Also, it's quite clear that this story had no real point and I just ultimately wanted to tell a joke that I must have found funny at the time.

If I were to rewrite this story today, there is a lot I would change: grammar, character development, incorporating some sort of actual plot, etc. But if Today Kevin could only edit one thing about Little Kevin's story, it would obviously be the punch line to the joke:
Q. What do you call two witchs that live together?
A. Dykes.

NOW it's ready to be published in The New Yorker.

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