I love anal sex
My mother has found my blog. I think it was only a matter of time, really, given that I hadn't called her back in two days and had just received an email from her saying that, in case I'm ever in a coma or other "emergency situation that prevents me from returning her calls" she wanted to have my friends' phone numbers. Is it me or does that sound like an obvious ploy for sympathy, from my friends, not for my "coma" but for my neglect?
The options now are either to change names and start anew, or to attempt to frighten her away with titles like the above. Or, I suppose, I could just keep doing what I've been doing and block out the fact that she might read it.
It's my own fault, really, since I left a comment on my sister's website and all my mom did was follow the (impossibly easy) trail by clicking on her mouse. Last night I called home, though not, as you might expect, in a fit of anger. Honestly, I did my best impression of a cool cucumber, with legs, talking to her boundary-unfriendly mother.
Me: Mom, I just need a forum where I can express myself, uncensored.
Mom: But it's a public forum! I am the public!
Me: Yeees, but I'd prefer to be able to write without being preoccupied by what people with think.
Mom: I'm the adoring public.
Me: Mom.
Mom: Fine. Fine!
I'm reading Garcia Marquez's Love in the Time of Cholera and it is fabulous, I cannot recommend it highly enough. The truth is that I'd put off reading it (for my literature class) because I expected it to be beautiful in the same way that Proust is important, i.e., masterfully written but impossible to read in a crowded coffee house and remember anything later. So in the meantime, I spent last Friday with The True and Outstanding Adventures of the Hunt Sisters, by Elisabeth Robinson, like a meatier Bridget Jones (meatier as in more soul and substance, not more poundage) and, for a day of escape, I highly approve. In fact, if you live in New York and you're reading this, I'll give it to you. (Loved it, you know, but with limited bookshelf space, I'd rather live the illusion with a row of Prousts.)
In the the shower just now, I was thinking about all the things I need to do that would make me feel caught-up with people (as opposed to a left-behind procrastinator). There are friends I haven't called back in months, haven't seen since last spring, and I think I do this in part because I'm so used to feeling guilty that it offers more of a reason. What would it feel like to be fully in the present without a train of Post-its stuck to my inside head, reminding me (again!) to do things I wanted to do in September? To erase the feeling I fall asleep with at night, the voice that says, "Oh lord, you have to do this stuff this week." When I think of returning to a full-time office job, I wonder if that implies that things will fall by the wayside. I remember so well the feeling of never having any time for myself; and now, I've grown used to the feeling of barely having time for anyone else.
Except when random sexual encounters are on the table. I looove anal sex with strangers!
The options now are either to change names and start anew, or to attempt to frighten her away with titles like the above. Or, I suppose, I could just keep doing what I've been doing and block out the fact that she might read it.
It's my own fault, really, since I left a comment on my sister's website and all my mom did was follow the (impossibly easy) trail by clicking on her mouse. Last night I called home, though not, as you might expect, in a fit of anger. Honestly, I did my best impression of a cool cucumber, with legs, talking to her boundary-unfriendly mother.
Me: Mom, I just need a forum where I can express myself, uncensored.
Mom: But it's a public forum! I am the public!
Me: Yeees, but I'd prefer to be able to write without being preoccupied by what people with think.
Mom: I'm the adoring public.
Me: Mom.
Mom: Fine. Fine!
I'm reading Garcia Marquez's Love in the Time of Cholera and it is fabulous, I cannot recommend it highly enough. The truth is that I'd put off reading it (for my literature class) because I expected it to be beautiful in the same way that Proust is important, i.e., masterfully written but impossible to read in a crowded coffee house and remember anything later. So in the meantime, I spent last Friday with The True and Outstanding Adventures of the Hunt Sisters, by Elisabeth Robinson, like a meatier Bridget Jones (meatier as in more soul and substance, not more poundage) and, for a day of escape, I highly approve. In fact, if you live in New York and you're reading this, I'll give it to you. (Loved it, you know, but with limited bookshelf space, I'd rather live the illusion with a row of Prousts.)
In the the shower just now, I was thinking about all the things I need to do that would make me feel caught-up with people (as opposed to a left-behind procrastinator). There are friends I haven't called back in months, haven't seen since last spring, and I think I do this in part because I'm so used to feeling guilty that it offers more of a reason. What would it feel like to be fully in the present without a train of Post-its stuck to my inside head, reminding me (again!) to do things I wanted to do in September? To erase the feeling I fall asleep with at night, the voice that says, "Oh lord, you have to do this stuff this week." When I think of returning to a full-time office job, I wonder if that implies that things will fall by the wayside. I remember so well the feeling of never having any time for myself; and now, I've grown used to the feeling of barely having time for anyone else.
Except when random sexual encounters are on the table. I looove anal sex with strangers!
posted by Sarah at 7:14 AM
2 Comments:
bless your mother, sarah. the point of being the "adoring" public is a hard one to refute. and so then...bless you, too.
Hahahaha
This was a hilarious post. Hello to your loving mommy.
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