"I'll judge you all and make damn sure that no one judges me."
"I'll judge you all and make damn sure that no one judges me."
I Start Fires! |
2003-01-09
Piggy's specs were nicked at: 1:29 a.m.
God can be cruel. When I was young, my worst fear involved walking past my bed in the dark of night and feeling a clammy hand wrap around my ankle. As I became older, my nightmare grew genitalia and my worst fear involved me accidently walking in on my parents during sex. That's a hell of an evolution, isn't it? Dear Abby and Cosmo magazine often gets letters from traumatized teenagers who lived my terror. In a shaky, frantic prose they ask the columnists for advice on erasing the past or gouging out their eyes. The columnists usually tell the reader they should be proud to know their parents still love each other enough to have sex; as if watching your middle aged parents grind is as lucky as a cricket in a wicker cage. Abby you shriveled old clam, these are desperate children of war that you're waving away! They're reaching out for your advice, your comfort with grasping claws. See their pale, sunken eyes and the horror theatre they project. They have gazed upon a flabby, sagging hell! I'm happy my parents still love each other after 27 years, but the fact of the matter is I don't want to see the two people who read me Dr. Seuss at bedtime making the Beast with Two Backs. So, back to God being cruel. I lived under my parents' roof for 20 years, incident-free. Then David proposed, I accepted, and my time at the Eisner Shack started to draw near its end. My parents' room is located in the basement, next to the laundry facilities. Two weeks before I was to get hitched and move out -- two weeks -- the angels in Heaven set up the cosmic horselaugh they've been saving for 20 years at my expense. It was late, and I was doing laundry (as it is, I'm largely nocturnal and pre-wedding jitters aren't soothing to sleep by). My dad walked out of his room to use the washroom, and he was thread naked. We froze for three seconds. Then we screamed at the same time and ran in opposite directions. The choreography was pure Looney Tunes. Well, it wasn't my nightmare, but it was bad enough. And yet, when I got my wits about me again, all I could do was laugh. Our kids are learning how to knock, or I'm knocking their heads off with a croquet mallet. Guh, I must be tired. I'm hallucinating a bit. Perfect writing conditions.
Beast from Water | Beast from Air |