Fiction
I am at this precise moment gagging inwardly from the effort to suck enough oxygen molecules for survivial out of the cloud of Newport smoke that passes for actual air in this car.
I should not be complaining, because at least I am finally on the road. The night at Roy's was horrible--his mom ended up finding me out down there in the basement; apparently Roy throwing in a load of laundry is suspicious behavior. She made me go upstairs and sit at their kitchen table for the whole night, and ate deep-fried smelt off a greasy paper plate right in front of my gurgling stomach, and grilled me as to why I was hiding in her basement on this particular Thursday night, and was I sure I wasn't pregnant. I'm so sure. Mrs. Blake was fixated on the idea that her homely-ass son had knocked me up, and she was secretly groovin' on the thought if you as me. I think she would've let me go sleep with roy that night just to have the potential of affirming her fantasy of Roy being "exactly like his father Roy Sr." who knocked her up at 15 and never spoke to her again.
Around 2:30 in the morning, she gave up the pregnancy talk (never even remembering to ask me why I actually *was* there to begin with) and I became some sort of giant microphone that she felt compelled to report her life's sorrows and joys into. For example, Jello shots are her secret to happiness, and her deepest regret is having raised Roy on Nyquil in order to "get soem ever-lovin' peace" at night.
Whatever.
I woke up to Roy smacking my head and telling me to get off the couch and into the car if I wanted a ride. He left me at a pub for a few hours this afternoon, and that's where I saw this totally screwed up family that was a composite of my own.
I should not be complaining, because at least I am finally on the road. The night at Roy's was horrible--his mom ended up finding me out down there in the basement; apparently Roy throwing in a load of laundry is suspicious behavior. She made me go upstairs and sit at their kitchen table for the whole night, and ate deep-fried smelt off a greasy paper plate right in front of my gurgling stomach, and grilled me as to why I was hiding in her basement on this particular Thursday night, and was I sure I wasn't pregnant. I'm so sure. Mrs. Blake was fixated on the idea that her homely-ass son had knocked me up, and she was secretly groovin' on the thought if you as me. I think she would've let me go sleep with roy that night just to have the potential of affirming her fantasy of Roy being "exactly like his father Roy Sr." who knocked her up at 15 and never spoke to her again.
Around 2:30 in the morning, she gave up the pregnancy talk (never even remembering to ask me why I actually *was* there to begin with) and I became some sort of giant microphone that she felt compelled to report her life's sorrows and joys into. For example, Jello shots are her secret to happiness, and her deepest regret is having raised Roy on Nyquil in order to "get soem ever-lovin' peace" at night.
Whatever.
I woke up to Roy smacking my head and telling me to get off the couch and into the car if I wanted a ride. He left me at a pub for a few hours this afternoon, and that's where I saw this totally screwed up family that was a composite of my own.
