Dear Five-year-old DeMo II,

The Easter Bunny can go to hell. I used to believe he was the reason I didn’t get to talk to my dad on Easter of ’98. Even as my hair greys, the picture of me sitting on that damn bunny’s lap, with my nose painted pink, and whiskers blackening my face, still bugs me. He’s the reason why I couldn’t grab the phone fir…read more