(no subject)
For once, there are moans echoing throughout our house and they aren't coming from my room. My mother is snoring, but to the untrained ear is sounds like the filming of Cumdumpsters V. My mother doesn't have sex. Those doors have been rusted shut and there are enough vines there to keep twelve men busy for eight days and nights. Not that that would ever happen. I don't think my mother digs guys anymore. I should have seen it coming when she announced her last crush as being Michael Jackson. It was shortly after 'Free Willy' came out and seriously, at that point, I would not have minded in the least if she even said that the big fucking whale was cute. I just needed some attempt by her to show me that she wasn't a sexless drone. Hmm ... now that I think about it, we did go to the SeaWorld in Canada that year. My mom sat on a little dead bird. It was a hoot.
I don't know much about my mother. Now there's something I shouldn't be complaining about. I live in shrouds of mystery so much so that 'Unsolved Mysteries' could have spouted twelve seasons off of just me. Hell, we can even dig up Robert Stack's dead corpse and film some more.
I don't know much about my mother. My mother doesn't know much about me. I think, in many ways it is because I feel as though I don't need her approval. This is my life and so long as the video tape of me doing the reach around on the farmer's prize winning swine doesn't air on tv then everything should be fine. I miss the possibility of each of us knowing each other. Sometimes. Most of the time not. We're just two completely different people in that she's too busy being white trash while I'm too busy pretending that I'm not.
It would make things easier maybe, I think. And there would certainly be loads that we could talk about in those sometimes endless days that we go without ever talking to one another. I'm not interested in anything that she likes though, and she is not interested in anything I hold close as well.
Her veiled, effortless atempts to be interested in something that I like humor me. Her idea, after having seen a photo of Hedwig, a drag queen thinking that it was a picture of Marilyn Monroe. Or her rationalization that The Cure's 'Lovecats' was from the musical 'Cats.'
Oh well. Maybe it's too late. Or it could be in it's early stages. Whatever the case may be I don't see a change happening. Maybe that's for the worse. Maybe that is for the best.
I don't know much about my mother. Now there's something I shouldn't be complaining about. I live in shrouds of mystery so much so that 'Unsolved Mysteries' could have spouted twelve seasons off of just me. Hell, we can even dig up Robert Stack's dead corpse and film some more.
I don't know much about my mother. My mother doesn't know much about me. I think, in many ways it is because I feel as though I don't need her approval. This is my life and so long as the video tape of me doing the reach around on the farmer's prize winning swine doesn't air on tv then everything should be fine. I miss the possibility of each of us knowing each other. Sometimes. Most of the time not. We're just two completely different people in that she's too busy being white trash while I'm too busy pretending that I'm not.
It would make things easier maybe, I think. And there would certainly be loads that we could talk about in those sometimes endless days that we go without ever talking to one another. I'm not interested in anything that she likes though, and she is not interested in anything I hold close as well.
Her veiled, effortless atempts to be interested in something that I like humor me. Her idea, after having seen a photo of Hedwig, a drag queen thinking that it was a picture of Marilyn Monroe. Or her rationalization that The Cure's 'Lovecats' was from the musical 'Cats.'
Oh well. Maybe it's too late. Or it could be in it's early stages. Whatever the case may be I don't see a change happening. Maybe that's for the worse. Maybe that is for the best.