My irkometer goes from zero to sixty in about five point three seconds as soon as Calvin starts into his hyper, manic behavior—thrashing about, screaming, kicking, spasmodically punching the air, ripping his glasses off, biting channels into his wooden tray. Any semblance of calm I once knew goes right out the window. Any mellow resolve found in a single glass of white wine in summer is broken, with tears, like a child’s spilt milk.

Originally published 7.17.11.

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