I go to therapy wearing my green and white military tank top that says: “my bush would make a better president.” My therapist sits in a modest desk chair and I slide into a black leather recliner. It’s a nouveau version of the therapy couch. Sweat gathers behind my knees, itching and sticking against the

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Cousin Paul has his spleen out. He gets transfusions as often as I get pistachio milkshakes. Every Christmas, he comes poorer and sicker and angrier. The rivers of veins swell close to the surface, especially near his right temple. His nostrils are permanently flared. I don’t know if these are symptoms. Every Christmas he’s a

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