So I told my Mum. 21. I told her I couldn’t talk to her cos I was in a van the other week, and her response was,
‘oo, that sounds exciting!’
Oo, that sounds exciting does it, being in a van? Does it? She must have smelt it; she knows I’m trouble, and she loves it.
When including her on my pentathlon of hour-long decision-making telephone calls, she told me that I, in fact, make better decisions than her. I do, do I? Dating a child with OCD and other animals……
She’s only ever fucked my Dad, you see. And they’re three years apart. No wonder I’m a bit odd, telling your daughter she should go with a man who was six when I was sucking off various drug dealers at Glastonbury.
Hilarious. She’s often commented that she’s only ever slept with my Dad. But they never came that close to divorce, I think that was just the menopause. Sorry, the man stop.
Perhaps she purposefully raised me as a slut. That’s what the boy calls me, dirty bird, slut.
I allowed myself the other night to lie on my rug when I was high on teenage weed, and let the love shower forth. I don’t let myself usually, you see. Hold that pain inside, sister.
What actually ended up happening is that I felt sexual energy surging from beneath me. The other night was starting to ‘cum’ back to me.
We’d scored some drugs with popping candy and glitter in, from a fat lesbian on a toilet. Which was a new one for him.
It was my little plan. What shall we do on Friday night? Dinner. Boring. Film. Boring. Pub. Stupid. Drugs and fucking. BRILLIANT!
I cajoled him back to mine with promises of music, guitars and as much neighbour nuisance as we could muster. I played him his fucking song I wrote, ‘I ain’t your Yoko’. He smiled and laughed a lot. And then he said
‘Right, let’s go to bed. Or not….’
At which point I recall……absolutely fucking nothing.
But the other night, lying on that rug, I felt sensations returning to me. Which was a bit inconvenient as it happens, because my mate was round for a feast of smashed meat dicker (it’s a bit like Bolognese). So getting the terrible horn off my rug was most inappropriate.
I wasn’t brought up right, y’know. I don’t say please, thank you or sorry. I confront my mum about it regularly, and the old fishwife just laughs. I told her I had delusions of grandeur recently, and she shrieked
‘you DO NOT’.
Classic, a girl with an inflated sense of self-worth, and my mother being appalled at the suggestion that she could have created such a monster. Unconditional love, eh? Can’t beat it……
I’ve renamed the teenage weed, by the way, to love weed……….
‘may you never lay your head down, without a hand to hold
may you never make your bed out in the cold’
‘oo, that sounds exciting!’
Oo, that sounds exciting does it, being in a van? Does it? She must have smelt it; she knows I’m trouble, and she loves it.
When including her on my pentathlon of hour-long decision-making telephone calls, she told me that I, in fact, make better decisions than her. I do, do I? Dating a child with OCD and other animals……
She’s only ever fucked my Dad, you see. And they’re three years apart. No wonder I’m a bit odd, telling your daughter she should go with a man who was six when I was sucking off various drug dealers at Glastonbury.
Hilarious. She’s often commented that she’s only ever slept with my Dad. But they never came that close to divorce, I think that was just the menopause. Sorry, the man stop.
Perhaps she purposefully raised me as a slut. That’s what the boy calls me, dirty bird, slut.
I allowed myself the other night to lie on my rug when I was high on teenage weed, and let the love shower forth. I don’t let myself usually, you see. Hold that pain inside, sister.
What actually ended up happening is that I felt sexual energy surging from beneath me. The other night was starting to ‘cum’ back to me.
We’d scored some drugs with popping candy and glitter in, from a fat lesbian on a toilet. Which was a new one for him.
It was my little plan. What shall we do on Friday night? Dinner. Boring. Film. Boring. Pub. Stupid. Drugs and fucking. BRILLIANT!
I cajoled him back to mine with promises of music, guitars and as much neighbour nuisance as we could muster. I played him his fucking song I wrote, ‘I ain’t your Yoko’. He smiled and laughed a lot. And then he said
‘Right, let’s go to bed. Or not….’
At which point I recall……absolutely fucking nothing.
But the other night, lying on that rug, I felt sensations returning to me. Which was a bit inconvenient as it happens, because my mate was round for a feast of smashed meat dicker (it’s a bit like Bolognese). So getting the terrible horn off my rug was most inappropriate.
I wasn’t brought up right, y’know. I don’t say please, thank you or sorry. I confront my mum about it regularly, and the old fishwife just laughs. I told her I had delusions of grandeur recently, and she shrieked
‘you DO NOT’.
Classic, a girl with an inflated sense of self-worth, and my mother being appalled at the suggestion that she could have created such a monster. Unconditional love, eh? Can’t beat it……
I’ve renamed the teenage weed, by the way, to love weed……….
‘may you never lay your head down, without a hand to hold
may you never make your bed out in the cold’
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