Basically How Every Classic of Literature Seems to Begin

It was the hottest summer anyone could remember, even Old Gretchen who lived down near the lake, and she was maybe about as old as the sun itself, Marvin said, so she would know.

The days passed with a stirring regularity.  In the morning we ate the same thing, which I will describe in detail in the next chapter, for breakfast.  Lunch, that’s chapter 3.   Dinners, each of those has its own chapter, and let me tell you that you aren’t going to want to skip even a one because these grocery lists are going to fuck your mind.

I awoke to see my mother’s dresser in the corner.  Boy am I excited to describe this dresser in painful detail.  My mother died in a horrific, weird, ritualistic fashion, an event to which we will devote 2 or 3 paragraphs.  But that dresser?  Chapters 8-11, baby.

In a minute I’ll talk about finding a nickel.  Because you’re stupid at history, you probably won’t have any sort of context for that.  I’ll fill you in enough by telling you that it’s not a lot, but not not a lot.

I learned a lot that summer.  Some from our sassy black maid who we describe in words that you’re not sure if you should read aloud in class.  Other things I learned from our sassy old woman neighbor.  Even more I learned from our sassy school teacher who was unmarried, which caused quite a stir until she was married and then it didn’t.

What an adventure we’re about to have!