by Eleonore Faucher
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I don't like it when people feel sorry for me. I prefer having fun. When people have tried to commiserate with me, for thirty years I've responded: "I don't have a father, but so what, that's the way it is. I've got a photo." I've also got two sisters, and an Italian mother. But watch out, it is forbidden to speak about "him" in front of "her." That sets off a volcanic eruption. Because it would seem that the volcano is not yet extinct. I think my face has something to do with it. It's the same as his. When members of the family see me laugh, they say: "She's the spitting image of her father." This makes my mother both sad and proud. She's proud because I'm blonde like he is, while everyone else has brown hair and dark looks. But me, I'd prefer to by like everyone else. That's why I do stupid things, like guys do, so as to resemble them, to be more Italian than they are. Stupid artist things, as my godfather says. I'm his favorite. And he's also my favorite. I've got to say, though, that I'd like to see him in the flesh, the guy in the photo, one day. Except it is said that he's dangerous, that he's crazy...