Shakira. Introvert. I write a lot of shit.
A swimmer, that's what I was. A picturesque Scorpio that didn't believe a blink of Astrology. With the heat of the season came an inviting ocean, a lake, the Clorox stench from a swimming pool. Then came a day when the water made a jittery entrance through my esophagus and then right up through my nostrils. Gushing: gushing out in the speed in which the Niagara waterfall hits its rocks, perhaps faster; I remember trying to make an exit from the pool, I remember stubbing my toe on the concrete just a second later. When I made it home that day I told mom swimming isn't fun anymore. "That's how it is," she said, "you're not little anymore."