Friday, December 18, 2009


We always got real drugged out in Ted's basement -- one trip rolling into the next until we were living a sticky & slow wood paneled alternate universe. Ted's mother, once a skinny teenager pregnant with the baby of a touring Sam Kinison, didn't know what to think of Ted. At age 11, he poured beer onto the ground & sniffed at it for hours. At 13, he set shit on fire behind the shed to prepare "in case we go to war." At 15, he started wetting down the front of his hair into a greasy swirl with the condensation from a chilled wine cooler.

Often, we found ourselves rolling on the shag of the basement carpet, my fingers wrapped tight around his 17-year-old neck, his hands wrestling & slapping against my arms. He didn't make a sound as I kneed him in the nuts, slapped his face hard on the right & went upstairs.

It was wrong for a mother be excited by her own son & his best friend wrestling. She was watching Days of Our Lives when I walked in.

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