Long before I gave up on writing, I gave up on drawing. I was pretty good at it. I can still draw Master Roshi or Philemon on the tablecloth as a fun dinner party trick; or Tien Shinhan with the lidless eye on his forehead. But it’s not the same. Nope, it’s just not the same. There’s something unhealthy, something joyless about it, like squeezing a cold teabag into an empty mug. I’m the scorpion that fell asleep; I spend my years inside a green wall dreaming dreams of my unfulfilled life. I recently found out that someone who knew me as a kid only has one memory of me from back then: the time I ate a raw onion. But it’s weird, I don’t remember doing that. I don’t know if I should be proud or not. What I do know is that the past is kind of like a raw onion. A raw onion and then digesting it, having it on your breath. But everything is hanging in the balance most of the time: look at me, look at me. Onno or Dulce Camino boxers. A pair of Demax sneakers and a pair that had a logo like Nikes, but with two short marks at the end of the tail; that’s who I am. Ugly but radiant; shy at parties, often ignorant. Ashamed. But here’s one thing I know for sure: there’s a place in my heart where the infinitely small and the infinitely large coexist, and they aren’t, respectively, atoms or radio galaxies, they’re the tiny fragment within our grasp: insects, the zodiac. And when my third wish comes true, everything will more or less go back to normal. And the wounded will be blessed, because there’s a good chance that I’ll lick their wounds one day.