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evil thatcher, money, disco, ian tyler, underground press, music, wav, eminem, feste, what'sin a name?, seth green, ian holm, band names, writing, algieria, atmosphere one on one, armenia, | His knuckles were thick and hairy. I don't know how she could stand those fingers caressing her flesh. "You could do better, sweetheart," she says. "Mom, could you wait until I get to my exit? I am trying to concentrate here. I'm on the freeway, for God's sake." She scolded me yesterday for talking on my cell phone, but she doesn't see anything kink wrong with harping at kink me when I'm driving. The kink truth is, I love it that she's with me. We were not that close before she showed up here in the car. In fact, she didn't speak to me for almost five years. |
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I won't waste your time going into too much detail over writing the initial discovery, the fear that writing I was losing my mind. I was the sane one, the only daughter born to an unwed teenage mother, the calm in the storm. Impossible that I could be going crazy, I decided. I still haven't told writing anyone about Mom in the car. "What kind of a name is Humphrey, anyway?" Mom asks after I drop Humphrey off at work. Humphrey is my husband. "Nobody that young should be called Humphrey. The name suits him, though. He's a seventy two year old man trapped in a thirty two year old body." "Don't start," I tell her. Why does she have to pick on him? When I picture her husband, his rat colored hair pulled back into that skinny ponytail, his ferret eyes - it makes me sick to my stomach to remember. |
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