Life back at my parent’s house in Nowheresville continues to stimulate. Here’s an update on what’s been happening in the pointless black chaos that is my life.
I think my mother’s having some sort of weird mental breakdown. She turned fifty earlier this year, and ever since she’s been acting completely nutso. I keep telling her that the age of acceptable craziness it at least sixty-five—maybe even older—but she seems to think turning fifty gives her free reign to scream at shop attendants, get drunk at 2pm and spend every day in this hideous black velour sweat suit thing that she bought at the church thrift store for $3. Not the Juicy Couture, ‘slutty mom from Long Island’ type, either. This is more of an ill-fitting, worn-out, ‘redneck on welfare’ vibe. Scary.
For the past week my mother’s done nothing but run around the house with a bottle of red wine in her hand, screaming about how excited she is for “Jesus’s Birthday Party.” (This is what she calls Christmas.) Her entire life she’s never been one to drink, but now that she’s fifty I guess anything goes. She’s the worst drunk, though. She gets way over-personal, and is constantly trying to “relate” to me. Gross. Just last night over ice cream she tried having some weird, Oprah-inspired sex talk.
“Karley, do you know where the G-spot is?” she asked.
“Uh… what, Mom?”
“The G-spot—do you know where it is? It’s very important to know this if you want to achieve sexual gratification. I went almost my entire life without knowing, until Oprah recently taught me. It’s changed my life.” EEWWW Mom! I don’t want to hear about what goes on inside your vaginal walls! I actually think I liked you better when you wore Christmas tree themed sweater-vests and talked about the virgin birth.
On a more positive note, my ex-boyfriend, Blaine, has recently started talking to me again. Sort of. We’ve been doing some casual emailing. What you up to? I miss you—that sort of thing. It’s nothing serious, but it’s definitely an improvement from eight months ago when he chucked an entire suitcase full of my clothes over the footbridge outside his Dad’s house into the Thames River. Dick. We’re getting along better now, but he still has a passionate hatred of my blog (one of the main reasons we broke up). An excerpt from one of his recent emails read:
“Karley, you know I love you, I just don’t understand why all you feel inspired to write about is disgusting sex and “jerking off.” Is that who you really are? It’s more sad than interesting, in my opinion.”
Thanks DAD. Jeez… when is he gunna just put up the white flag and accept me for the emotional retard that I am? Still, I’m optimistic…
At the moment I’m lying in my bed. It’s 4am and I can’t sleep. I’m thinking about Blaine—the way he used to look when he was sleeping, how his eyes and lips twitched ever so slightly. Even when he was asleep his face was so full of expression. I would stare at him for hours and wonder what he was dreaming about—whether it was about me, or about cock (more likely), or rather if it was one of those dreams that is so illusive and perfect that trying to describe it in words would completely negate its infinite power.
I wonder if I’ll ever meet someone who will love me as much as Blaine did. Outlook cloudy…