I spent twenty years of my life wishing he were "normal."
Imagining. Yearning. Wondering about ordinary things like-what would he
be like? What would he look like? Would we get along, and what would we
have in common?
When you accuse me of a crime of which I was indeed once
guilty, I feel bad. Accuse me of something I haven't done, however, and
I'll probably just laugh and stroll away, unbothered by your obvious
misidentification...