What Matters Most...: Part Two
Continuation: Farrah's flashback.
After avoiding red lights and rude drivers, I finally have a moment to myself. No more of that pigs-getting-raped sound Brandon calls music. I can finally listen to my music - the kind of music I listened to when I was with Kenny. Our song "Angie" by The Rolling Stones. Kenny would tell me, as he caressed the inner part of my right arm, "This song reminds me of you" I never understood why. My name is not Angie and thank God for that.
My wannabe Charlie's Angels mother was named Angie. She would prance around our house with a blonde wig which anyone could spot from Olympia, Washington, no really, we lived in Seattle and relatives from the Olympia area would call in the middle of the night begging my mother to remove that cheap whore wig. My mother was Farrah Fawcett, in the sense that she sometimes slid across her car while annoyingly flipping her hair.
She lacked in the looks department. The bags under her eyes where bigger than the speed bumps near my kid's school, and her belly stuck out farther than her ass. The color of her skin made me thirsty for 1% milk - maybe because of the pasty texture. Still trying to figure out why. She spent most of her time being Farrah - more than being my mother. Looking back, I believe she did her best. Besides, she was considered by my guy friends as "The Cool Mom".
She use to visit my guy friends while I stayed home painting my nails and watching Miami Vice. Her excuse was "I'm just running over to drop off some cookies". Now, I wonder, as a future hoe bag myself, why she really visited them. I recall when I was little, hearing a strong man's voice screaming Angie. I don't know who he was. A shadowy image appears and the only lasting picture I have from that moment is my mother's face dropping so low, it touched her breast.
Her complexion resembled our bathroom wall. I hated walking into that animal - rotten - flesh bathroom. She liked the way it looked "it shows my personality" she'd say. In all actuality, our guest preferred the gas station. Who was that man? damn it. All mom ever told me was "he is never coming back".
(beep, beep) "hey lady, move it!"
"Fuck off"
Great, I'm perfumed with liquor. Mitch is going to love this................
My wannabe Charlie's Angels mother was named Angie. She would prance around our house with a blonde wig which anyone could spot from Olympia, Washington, no really, we lived in Seattle and relatives from the Olympia area would call in the middle of the night begging my mother to remove that cheap whore wig. My mother was Farrah Fawcett, in the sense that she sometimes slid across her car while annoyingly flipping her hair.
She lacked in the looks department. The bags under her eyes where bigger than the speed bumps near my kid's school, and her belly stuck out farther than her ass. The color of her skin made me thirsty for 1% milk - maybe because of the pasty texture. Still trying to figure out why. She spent most of her time being Farrah - more than being my mother. Looking back, I believe she did her best. Besides, she was considered by my guy friends as "The Cool Mom".
She use to visit my guy friends while I stayed home painting my nails and watching Miami Vice. Her excuse was "I'm just running over to drop off some cookies". Now, I wonder, as a future hoe bag myself, why she really visited them. I recall when I was little, hearing a strong man's voice screaming Angie. I don't know who he was. A shadowy image appears and the only lasting picture I have from that moment is my mother's face dropping so low, it touched her breast.
Her complexion resembled our bathroom wall. I hated walking into that animal - rotten - flesh bathroom. She liked the way it looked "it shows my personality" she'd say. In all actuality, our guest preferred the gas station. Who was that man? damn it. All mom ever told me was "he is never coming back".
(beep, beep) "hey lady, move it!"
"Fuck off"
Great, I'm perfumed with liquor. Mitch is going to love this................
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