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May 6, 2003
In both instances -- the beer incident with my father and the bulletin board incident with Mr. Calloway -- I realized the two men I loved only wanted me to understand the idiocy of my actions, wanted nothing more than for me to grow up smarter than they’d grown up. Hell, I call myself stupid all the time, not out of rage and frustration, but out of regret for not using my head. I knew what they knew: that if I let myself be stupid, I’d end up as a factory grunt or a low-paid teacher in a hopeless town.