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Excerpt:  Ever since I can remember, I've been crying. Sometimes it seems like all I ever do. One of my earliest memories is of my father chasing me around the house when we lived in Dumas, Texas. He had a big pair of scissors in his hand, and I can still hear the sounds of the steel slicing open and closed as he shouted “I'll cut it off, dammit; I'll cut that little fucker off.” I had woke him to the news, again, that I had wet the bed. Hell, I was only five, and frightened, and tears streamed down my face. Fortunately, Mom came to the rescue, so I'll never know if he'd of cut that fucker off.

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