-Eudora Welty
There are two sharp metal clips on the back of each the nineteen frames that I bought at Wal-Mart for $1.50 each, each digging into my upper nail beds with every twisting time I open the back of the distressed paneling to gingerly place three fingerprinted photos inside.
Hopefully the gifts are well-received, due to the incredible amounts of pain that I’m taking because of them, although the actuality of anyone actually considering taking this to college, boasting about the three blurry photos that they are in together with me, is very bleak. They are good memories, nonetheless, good stories, good quotes, tangible remnants of the good, the best of times.
For some reason, though, probably some cruel joke from the aproned, drop-out staff at Sam's Club Photo Department, the poorly-printed photographs, these good memories, are just slightly too long to fit inside of the frame, becoming bent in impossible positions, forced and misshapen as I rudely jam them into the frame's crevices. After about fifteen long minutes of creasing and tearing, I finally resort to running around my house to find our family’s sole pair of 90’s era blue scissors, having been forced by the 4x6 Gods to cut a centimeter from each and every of the fifty-seven pictures.
And then an hour passes, the nineteen finished frames lying sleepily on my bed, a confetti of fifty-seven injured glossed cuttings resting on my stained khaki shorts, and, except for the sore plastic clip bruises on my thumbs, all is right with the world.
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