All I wanted was money. My whole life. When I was 12 I read every book about Howard Hughes. How he had fingernails that were so long they curled around his fingers. He stored his urine and shit in bottles so they could be studied later. He only hired Mormons who would every day measure out his floor in square inches and clean them one square at a time with a toothbrushes. They also apparently had no holidays so would even work on Christmas. How he invented the push-up bra, the largest airplane, some sort of tool-bit drill, how he lived the last days of his life in a plane that would only land to fuel up.
That’s it, I said to myself. I want to be exactly like him. I found a glass jar and tried to pee in it but it filled up too quickly. I was 12. Later, I thought. When my parents could afford bigger glass jars. I dumped the urine and put the jar back in the kitchen. I stopped cutting my nails. Girls would ask me how I got my nails so long. They always bit theirs off. Because they were weak specimens of human and I was the next Howard Hughes.
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