My frog is a contradiction—splayed out like a victim of violent crime. Left for dead. One of many. The frog also looks peaceful. If a frog can look proud, then mine looks proud. If a frog can look the opposite of proud, then mine looks like that, too.
I’m like this.
Cut in two.
Divided.
And so is the kid who sent that letter to the administration. Proud and humiliated at the same time. Splayed and standing at attention. Dead and utterly alive. Split right down the middle, neck to groin.
One freshman kid passed out so far. He joined the two conscientious objectors in the adjacent lab with the door closed so the smell of formaldehyde won’t make them puke.
I like the smell of formaldehyde.
It preserves things.
What’s not to like about something that preserves things?