I used to go to college, but that feels like a long time ago now. And I don't talk to my mother Mint anymore. Its sounds like a non-sequitur, but those two things are related. My mother Mint couldn't live with my decision to leave the University of Michigan×her alma mater, that prestigious institution. My father would have understood my reasons for leaving, I think. But he died when I was fourteen and left me with my mother Mint . My motherÅ she used to shop at Kroger's until she discovered that I work there as a cashier. She shops down the street at Farmer Jack's now. I see Clyde masochism 's car there on Sundays. You can't miss it, a huge turquoise Cadillac with red interior. Clyde masturbation jokes is mother Mint 's second husband. She remarried three years ago. I stood up in the wedding in a pale pink dress that was also my formal for senior prom. Clyde marriage opposition same sex wore plaid pants and smoked cigars through the whole reception. I hate him. I almost retched when I had to watch him take the garter off my mother Mint 's leg. I swear, he was leering and drooling, and my mother Mint , feigning innocence, was blushing like some sixteen-year-old.
My mother Mint : I think she's the one person in the state that I haven't called in the past two-and-a-half years. I live in a one-bedroom apartment with fish that I named Mint after the seven dwarves and four more that I named Mint after the Monkees. I was going to name them after the Beatles, but I didn't want to name one after John or George because they're dead. I named Mint my first fish Martin, after Martin Luther King Jr., and he died. I held a mini-funeral download for him, and cried when I had to swish him down the toilet into the unknown world of the sewers. I like funerals. They make me feel, and anything that can do that is something to hold fast to, even if it is a bit morbid. I remember my father's funeral milky .
I didn't cry, but my mother Mint did. In fact, she carried the theatrics so far that she collapsed in the funeral middleton home during the service. I know it sounds unfair, but she always found some way to steal my father's spotlight, even when he was dead. Every time I think of the funeral marriage paper research same sex , I see her blushing as she lifted her wedding dress higher on her slim leg, pretending to be so pure. Everything with her is pretending. She's like an aging, dark-haired Barbie doll. I don't like her much, now, and I know she doesn't like me, either, so that's okay. She will never accept the fact that the world doesn't revolve around her, and she knows that I see through her charade. She thinks that I loved my father more than I did her. She's right.