Mother F**king

This one time I upset my mother worse than ever before. I had written a story for a 'creative writing' exam about her, sometime during the purgatory years of high school. It contained waffling teenage prose about Bob Dylan's "Jokerman" and bottles and bottles of white wine she consumed during the witching hour, her irreconcilable issues with her father and mother which have burdened her since birth, her catholic school upbringing where the nuns would rap children across the knuckles for answering and not answering a question and where children would urinate involuntarily in fear. All this I scribbled across my lined A4 page hurriedly before my time ran out. Ah my newly acquired adolescent bitterness! Somewhere I wrote she'd "grown fat with domesticity". It was a stupid story, but my teacher thought it was marvelous and put it in the school magazine where my mother and everyone within our microcosm found it. She was horrified. She must've wondered why she endured the pain of childbirth and the tedium of child-raising only to have this girl-child spit back at her. I felt terrible, there were feeble attempts to deny it was about her, and eventually it was pushed under the rug. I'm waiting for Time to make it funny. When the day comes I will laugh until I'm sick.