“Music is the answer,” she said, as I grooved down South Central Avenue mimicking her every move. “Use your hips, like this,” she hollered. “Keep on movin’, girl. You got it. Just do what you gotta’ do and get it done.”
I swear on my mother’s head I will kill her one day. On the way to school this morning mom’s clunker broke down, no cash on hand. She’s an old clunker but the car is worse than her. It didn’t break down though, just ran out of gas. She didn’t have a dime nor pants, only an ashtray with a blunt and I had to suffer because she was only wearing a pajama top and slippers. When she takes me to school she is an unbelievable old hag with guts.
“That’s right. That’s the answer. Just keep it clean, girl. Keep it clean. Try that funky dance morning style,” she said. And I did, as much as I could at 7AM.
I set up a twitter account last night, under a pseudonym of course, Almost Dorothy, not Fancy Lips, to file my complaints and to converse with tetradactyls. Someone slipped me a tweet this morning about the prevalence of God in the universe, that all is full of His light. Not sure why or what to tweet back or why wait for rain in traffic but I responded with an asterisk (*) and sidestepped the whole debate about the existence of extraterrestrials.
I want a single payer health care system so mom’s hooliganism and tetrazzini can be taken care of without further delay. I swear I can’t put up with her middle finger and denial of service anymore. I can’t stand the two-faced masters of wellness and tympanic bone heads, suits and ties, HMOs. I can’t stand macaroni and cheese and the fact HMO sounds like homo either.
I’m drawn to the Twitter and its undeniable power to telegraph the future actions of warlords and finks, mothers and daughters, shrinks. It makes me feel plastic-doll-like-yet-comforted-in-the-arms-of-a-child with big grizzly teeth, the uncabbage patch.
I found a tweet by Reza Aslan that led me to his article about fatwas and dreams, two things my teacher was opposed to during recess behind the monkey bars. Supposedly Reza has decoded the future of green. The revolution will be digitized Da Vinci code style.
I wanted to hitchhike straight to hell this morning but mom wouldn’t let me. She said they’d eat me alive. I asked her who they were but she refused my tête-à-tête and gobbled on about how Agamemnon’s kids Zoroaster and Zeus were assholes.
I wasn’t eaten alive but I imagined a universe without fatwas and pre-existing conditions as I worked it. I imagined a world in which nothing mattered and everything mattered equally.
I flagged down an 18-wheeler for gas, full of guts. The kids laughed at me. Moms honked as if I were a zygote, polyp, their kids fat faces smashed against tinted windows. Assholes, I thought. Mom gave them the finger. I did too.
“Girl, raise your head,” she said. “Like you really mean it.”