I want to glide down Biscayne Bay in my pink and yellow muumuu. I want to call the cops on the muumuu monster called mom. I want to suck the madness out of the Gulf. I want to fly without wings. Mine the world with mines.
The scene: 9AM. Mom’s false teeth on the kitchen counter. Her push up bra unclasped. No bottom. A frozen chicken pot pie melting in the sink as her lipstick melts on the window sill. Sunday. My photograph of Squinny torn into a hundred tiny pieces on the breakfast table.
Mom said she was upset or pissed off because I had disrespected her when I had sexual relations with that Puerto Rican-Peruvian-Sephardic boy. She said I’d go to hell and my panties would burn in hell. Said that my privates would burn in hell. Said that I’m whore and that I would burn and burn and burn till I understood what she was talking about. You dirty little whore, she said. Just like you, I said. Just like you.
Mom smacked the wind cause I’m too friggin’ fast. I ran to my room. Assessed the importance of things like my Hello Kitty purse, red red ruby slippers, the pink lava lamp. I left my underwear behind. I left the lava lamp and potted cactus behind. I left the whole world behind and Bobo the Mutt too. He was furious at me for leaving him with mom. He looked at me and cried. He said don’t go, don’t leave me, in the language of dogs.
The world is not big enough anymore. I packed my mirror to remind me of who I was and where I’ve been. I scooped up all the pieces of Squinny and sealed her up in a pink envelope. I swiped a pack of mom’s cigarettes from the kitchen counter and then hauled ass out of that house as she hauled ass after me. I jump into the arms of Amanda B., who had waited for me in her getaway station wagon ever since she left mom and me. Hanging. Just in case I needed a lift away from Mars.