I was minding my own business at the Arts on Foot Festival (post forthcoming), admiring paintings created by prisoners in art therapy programs, when a small voice chimed in, "Want to see your DNA?""I'm sorry..." I pulled my mind out of a pencil sketch of Tupac and searched for the voice.
"Would you like to take your DNA home with you today?" She repeated with a smile.
"I suppose I planned to do that anyway..." I quipped. She was not amused.
I subsequently agreed to participate in her activity primarily as an apology for my lame joke. I scraped my tongue with a wooden stick, swished sour liquid around in my mouth, spit in a test tube, used an eye dropper to combine this spit with some sort of alcohol and drops of a mystery acidic fluid, and then shook shook shook the tube.
A little strand of what looked like a stray sweater thread suddenly appeared in the tube. She ceremoniously tied a thread around said tube, put it around my neck and sent me on my way.
