After Baudelaire

I am no longer happy. I could make a little catalogue of sorrows, but it would beg the question: was there ever a moment of bliss in my unfortunate existence? Yes, once as an infant I was the victim of a perverse and cruel joke. I was laid at the breast of my father, and sucked and chewed, but could not receive any milk. But I hated milk.  Was slightly allergic, it made me bloated and woozy. I hated the thickness and warmth, scalding to an infant mouth, too viscous for a gullet constricted from fear. And the unwelcome intrusion of maternal antigens, spiraling through to the bloodstream.

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