Wednesday, October 1, 2008
It was T.D.’s 19th birthday party. We were drunk virgins and I was sick of waiting for him to make the first move. I wanted him to be “the one” more than anything at the time. I knew that he was uncircumcised so I asked him to show me what it looked like. He waved the “let’s go” flag, grabbed me and we locked ourselves in the bedroom. He proceeded to show me the business. I looked at him, he looked at me… I went to make my move when he pushed me away and said “We’re just friends, right?” So I was trying to work through being rejected (and staring at my first penis) and went to tell him that I really liked him when he started crying about how much he loved his mom. The bawling was so loud that our mutual friend had to come in and console T.D. with “it’s okay, man. Your mom's great.” With his raging-semi shlong hanging part way out of his jeans. Last I heard he "had his heart broken by a stripper" and spent some time in jail. He may have just delivered your pizza.
Tricia was her name. She is my mother. My parents separated on 11 September 2001. My father blamed it on her alcoholism and cheatin' heart. Even though I didn't want to admit it, I knew they were unhappy. My little sister and I were to live with my dad. Tricia was to go off to my grandparent's house until she could get a place of her own. Fast forward three or so months of akward every other weekend vistits, Tricia rolled her little Ford Espire over. Everyone in the small town where she lived was shocked that it was due to alchol. My grandfather kicked her out and told her that she had to go to rehab. She went to a rehab center about an two hours away from where I live. My little sister and I visited every other weekend with the supervision of the counslors there. I hated my mother for making me visit her here. I hated how she made cry myself to sleep. At eleven, a girl needs her mother. During that time, I was rasing my sister with the help of my father. Tricia would pop up every two or three months with a letter or phone call. During one of the first days of summer after my seventh grade year, she called. I remeber cursing at her trying to figure out why she was calling me. Tears were rolling down my face faster and faster. My dad told me to go to my room. I did. I closed the door behind me and all I hear are screams from my father. I decided to call my grandfather. That event changed me and within a few weeks, I decided that she was no longer going to make me cry. It took me a while to get over the whole ordeal but, I feel stronger because of it.