Illustrations by Maya Tuncel
The July that Woody Allen died was the July I drove off the cliff and lived. Woozy on Vicodin, I said to the nurse, “Thank god he’s finally kicked it.” The hospital TV did not show his most recent self, withered and bent as if against a constant wind, but his young, first-in-love face.
When I went off the cliff I thought, This car is going to be totally totaled. I was seventeen and had just been kicked off the volleyball team for bullying. When I went off the cliff I thought, God . . .
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