So it’s mothers day. The day in which we celebrate the original trauma of being ripped from our only comfort and jettisoned into this world of cigarette burns and anxiety. Trying to arrange my flimsy annual phone call I cannot escape my girlfriend’s nagging bullshit:
“Did you send flowers?”
“What about the card? You sent the card didn’t you?”
“Chocolate would have been good too, ya know”
Her barrage of questions eerily remind me of the first day of 3rd grade, as my mother rattled off all of the shit I had to remember or do. As if struck by a bolt lighting and ball shot by an angry mule I thought of Macbeth. Poor old Macbeth and the constant nagging of his power hungry wife. Freudian through and through. What must his mother have been like? Probably not too different than his knife coaxing bride. What is my mother like? Not too different than than the woman who has me running up a flag pole over a day where “the lack” is lorded over me at a mind numbing clip.
Absolom! Absolom! And Born into Shame!
- El Chacal