So today I told mom that I want boobs just like her when I’m older. I told her I want boobs but not the kind of boobs that sag like hers. I want the kind of boobs she had before I was born. The boobs I saw in pictures back when she worked as a stripper at Scarlett’s Cabaret on Hallandale Beach Boulevard and I-95, which is the strip club right in front of the trailer park where I was born. Mom didn’t really think she was gonna give birth but I was ready. Came right out on the linoleum kitchen floor. Mom didn’t want to stain the carpet. In any case, mom said I can’t have boobs because I’m a boy and boys can’t have boobs. I remind her that boys have boobs. They’re just different than girl boobs. I remind her that even some of the boys at Scarlett’s had girl boobs and the customers didn’t seem to mind. Men are stupid, she said, but those boobs are not for you. Mom said those are decorative boobs and I told her I knew that. But I don’t care. I want to get fixed up when I’m grown up. I don’t want a flat chest or hairy man boobs. I want real boobs. The kind that make all the men go crazy. The kind that make men worship you. The kind that make men scream hallelujah Jesus Christ, hallelujah. Hallelujah? Mom asked. Hallelujah this! She screamed. My boobs are the reason why I gave birth to this mess. The house? I asked. Not the goddamn house she yelled back. I think I pissed mom off today, but I don’t care. I have dreams. Besides, I love this mess. Even when she opens her mouth.