Oh, lord. I thought it was bad reading through my twenty-year-old fiction to proof it for reissue. I knew it would be worse reading through the mushy love poetry. But I forgot I wrote an introduction to this book. An impassioned essay from twenty-year-old me on free speech and morality and sex and how all the grown-ups are such meanies.
I'm just going to go bury my head in the sand and hope no one can see me. Me and the ostrich, we're like *this*.