'From the looks of it,' I pointed to Mom's belly, 'Dad didn't know you at all.' I was deciding between calling my mother a 'bitch' and calling her a 'fucking bitch' when she chucked the rest of her ice cream cone at the side of my face. The ice cream splattered against my hair and cheek. The wafer cone landed on the side of my leg. I picked it up and threw it back at her. I pulled the top of my own ice cream off of its cone and aimed for Mom's chest. She shrieked, swerving the car and throwing back at me whatever clumps of ice cream she could pull from her cleavage. We each lost sense of our target, hurling any ice cream slop we could get hold of. The rental car's green cloth upholstery and side windows clouded over in sticky, cherry-flavored film. Chocolate ice cream melted in streams down Mom's chest. The black velvet letters on my Victim T-shirt soaked up my dessert. Mom drove and swore. She called me ungrateful and threatened to leave me right there on the spine of Devil's Backbone. Mom didn't notice the bend in the road. She screamed in confusion as our rental car lurched through a very real white picket fence, careening down a hill and into an orchard. She pumped and locked the brakes just in time for us to hit a patch of peach trees.
...
'That's it. I'm through. And you can be damned sure I'm not taking you to Yorba Linda. There's no fucking way I'm visiting Nixon.'

  ¶ 11:56 AM 0 comments

  It ended like it began. Seemlessly. I don't know, we were all the sudden dating, in my bed, sitting there at christmas together, laying on separate couches because we were in love, sitting on separate couches because there was nothing left to say, and then it was over. But we stayed friends.

  ¶ 7:49 PM 0 comments

  More Saunders Honey, if you need help, ask for help, you're not alone in this world, you sweet little goof.

  ¶ 9:45 AM 1 comments

  'Now for the fun. The eating. Eating the good food I have broughten. That's fun isn't it? I think that's fun.'
We start to eat. It's fun.
'Broughten.' he says. 'The good food I have broughten. Is it brought or broughten?'
'Brought,' I say.
'The good food I have brought,' he says. 'Broughten.'


  ¶ 9:22 AM 0 comments

  a cosy bit of logic I was a good Christian; born and bred in the bosom of the infallible Presbyterian Church. How then could I unite with this wild idolator in worshipping his piece of wood? But what is worship? I thought. Do you suppose now, Ishmael, that the magnanimous God of heaven and earth - pagans and all included - can possibly be jealous of an insignificant bit of black wood? Impossible! But what is worship? - to do the will of God - that is worship. And what is the will of God? - to do my fellow man what I would have my fellow man do to me - that is the will of God. Now, Queequeg is my fellow man. And what do I wish that this Queequeg would do to me? Why, unite with me in my particular Presbyterian form of worship. Consequently, I must then unite with him in his; ergo, I must turn idolator. So I kindled the shavings; helped prop up the innocent little idol; offered him burnt biscuit with Queequeg; salamed before him twice or thrice; kissed his nose; and that done, we undressed and went to bed, at peace with our own consciences and all the world. But we did not go to sleep without some little chat.

How it is I know not; but there is no place like a bed for confidential disclosures between friends. Man and wife, they say, there open the very bottom of their souls to each other; and some old couples often lie and chat over old times till nearly morning. Thus, then, in our hearts' honeymoon, lay I and Queequeg - a cosy, loving pair.

  ¶ 4:33 PM 0 comments

  Another reason people, especially girls, may have thought I was gay was that I ignored them. I should say, they thought I ignored them because it appeared as though I was not looking. I was and am, but not when they expect it. I see you, cute girl with the short brown hair. The dress worn to make me look at you, the make up and hair casting the same spell as the mirror, forcing eyes to turn. What can I say, I'm good. I trained myself, early on, to not look. Imagine you turn a corner and I have been coming towards that corner head on. I see you as you turn the corner and immediately I look away, the memory of your body and face still in my head. You turn the corner, maybe you are looking at the sidewalk or a car and you don't see me at first. By the time you do, what do you see? A guy who is not looking and who therefore, you presume, does not think you are attractive and the reason is you are not or he is gay. And like I said before, because I have perfectly defined facial and bodily features, you go with your latter reasoning: I am gay.

To explain. I do not look at girls for very long because I never wanted to give them one goddamn thing. I love my mother, always have. There is not a single bad memory of her, but nonetheless I grew up hating attractive women. Or at least, I wanted them to know that I did not give a shit about them. It might come from the fact that I grew up chubby, with low self-esteem. That could be it. It's hard to believe, but I was a fatass.  ¶ 10:01 AM 0 comments