It’s getting to the point that I really can’t tell anymore if I am changing, or if I am beginning to see the world for what it really is: a big steaming pile. Of shit. Hobo shit.
When did I stop loving my mom? Was she always this retarded? I used to cling to her skirt like lint, but now I can’t tolerate her for more than a couple of minutes at a whack. I mean, first of all, she looks like such a first-class she-tool almost all the time. I’ve seen pics of my mom when she was young, and she looks fairly cool…for the era, I guess. But now she wears these dumb jeans with that mom-wash and they all come up over her gut and the zipper is a mile long like a highway to Geekville. And then she wears these goofy, baggy t-shirts that are all like Haines Beefy T’s and tucked in for the love of God with like this ultra-square braided belt that’s all brown and shit, and she wears these thick, sweaty, fisherman socks and her clogs like ALL YEAR. Get some winter shoes, for Christ’s sake. Ugh. And the hair. I guess she just doesn’t care whether or not my dad has any interest in nailing her or not.
It drives me crazy that all these freaky fucks have kids and then like poof! They are dorks. Why must it happen? My buddy Neil’s mom gives me such a boner that I’ve gotta push it aside so I can see anything going on in front of me. How come SHE didn’t dorkify? That MILF’s ass is like a volleyball. And she wears the hottest stuff, and she’s always TRYING, you know? Like she gives a fuck about her place in this craphole world. Oh well. I guess what do I need with my pals (personal ass lickers) jerking off to my mom in their spare time? I have enough to worry about without my dad going apeshit because he catches her rocking the Serta with a 17 year-old. It’s just sad to see a person give up. She has a pretty face, I guess. Sorta.
Anyway, so my mom doesn’t seem to care about her life at all. She’s fucking wrapped up tight in MY life (or so she thinks), and in my sister’s life, and sometimes she even manages to care about the shit my dad has going on. My older brother Matt is in college now and he escaped, but mom calls him EVERY FREAKING DAY to try and insinuate herself from afar, but he only calls her back like once out of every four times. Good for him. I am so jealous of the fact that he doesn’t have to sit through Taco Night anymore, because Taco night, as an institution, is in complete freefall.
The thing is, my mom doesn’t cook GREAT or anything—she’s not a very inventive person—so I always used to look forward to Taco Night because how can you fuck it up, right? You cook the stuff and throw in the powder and mix it up and dump on the cheese from the bag after you stick it in the shell and POW, you’ve got dinner. And when I was younger, it was fun, everyone got to make their own, and since you were a kid making your own was a big thing. When I was a kid, everything made me giggle. Me, my sister, my brother, all of us would have fun doing almost anything. It makes me so sad thinking about it. I never really talk to my sister anymore and nothing ever seems to make me laugh but the mean stuff. And that’s NOT HOW I WANT IT TO BE. But I just can’t seem to help it.
I don’t laugh anymore on Taco Night. I usually make a couple and then carry them into my room and watch TV there, or blast FUCKING AWESOME MAYHEM, or look on the internet at gang stuff. Sometimes I read gun mags cause they make me think about big things. I know this hurts my mom and my dad and maybe to a lesser extent Clare (my sister), but it just irks me to no end to have to talk to any of them more than I absolutely have to. We’re all just too damn sad about everything. Well, not Clare quite yet, but she’s gonna be soon, make book on it.
So last night I my dad knocks on my door while I’m checking out some fucking boss Faces of Death clips on YouTube and he cracks the door without me saying ‘come in’ because I NEVER say ‘come in’ in the hopes that whoever wants to come in will stop wanting to come in and just go the hell away. My dad knows this and so he just comes in and it pisses me off to no end BUT ANYWAY. “Hey Sport, your mom made tacos. Make her feel good and come out and eat some, huh? Fiesta time.” I tell him I’m fine, cause I am. “Just get your ass out to the kitchen and eat a damn taco. Jesus, Pendel.” My dad only ever gives diplomacy one shot at working and then he says fuck it, which I guess I understand. I don’t even try that hard. So I say okay, whatever, and then I go to get up, but I make it nice and slow so he’s already out to the table before I’m even in the hallway (after I grab my iPod so I can rock Mayhem on my endless taco misadventure without having to hear any of them say a word…so obvious but I could care less about THAT), and I drag my tired butt out there and slam a couple of tacos together, and I can just FEEL my mom’s eyes all fucking sad and big on my back just waiting for me to say anything at all to her, with her sensible hair and her big, baggy t-shirt and her glass of wine and her lack of defining characteristics. My dad doesn’t give a shit, persay. He just thinks this is a ‘tricky time’ for me and he’s got enough going on in his life to sit back and let things pass and little does he know that things aren’t going to JUST PASS—my brain is a freight train lately and I don’t foresee it STOPPING dad, I don’t think there’s going to be any relief anytime SOON, dad—a storm is coming, FATHER, and it’s just going to keep growing until the fucking roof is torn off the unhappy home you worked so so hard to build.
My tacos are made so I head immediately back to my room, but a hand is on my elbow turning me, and it’s what I dreaded all along, and I tried not to make a misstep, I tried not to give anyone any reason at all to stop me, but it didn’t work. I tried to just keep walking like I didn’t feel, but the hand won’t give up, the hand keeps turning me. And then I’m face to face with those big sad eyes, and it makes me so frustrated and impatient but it hurts too because I don’t know how else to feel—and what, like I want to be a dick? But just LOOK AT HER. She pulls the buds out of my ears (ANNOYING) and says to me, “You forgot tomatoes. They’re your favorite. Take some, or they’ll go bad.”
Go bad. I’ve gone bad, and she knows it. I tell her I don’t eat tomatoes, and she’s like “Yes you do, you’ve always loved them.” And I try to just blow it off and head back to my hole, but she stops me still, even though she KNOWS I want out of the room, and she’s like, “You’ll make me feel better if you at least take a few, you used to love them so much, they made you happy..” They did then, they don’t now. And I hate it that she’s so wrapped up in my happiness, and I hate it that she still keeps tabs on my likes and dislikes, and maybe it would be different if she would just ONCE lose herself in something SHE likes and be a PERSON about it and have to ask me a question about me instead of THINKING she knows it all, and I look down at her empty hands because she’s always always ALWAYS the last person to get herself food, she ALWAYS waits until the rest of us have gotten ours, our greedy little paws grabbing up all we want, crumbs flying, drinks spilling, and she pretends to be so patient while inside isn’t she screaming? Doesn’t she want something? Something for herself? ANYTHING? My god, isn’t she even HUMAN?
I say to her that I don’t eat them now, because my stomach hurts a lot now, all the time, and the tomatoes make it worse. YOU eat them, I tell her. She looks at me like I’ve stabbed her. I ask her how long she’s going to wait before she eats, and she finally turns away and says some bullshit about how it doesn’t matter when she eats, cause no one wants to eat with her anyway, and that just makes me nuts. Crazed. I hate self pity in anyone but me. And I turn HER around, and I put my plate in her hands, and I say take this, eat it, I’m not hungry and I’m sick of watching you wait. She tries to push it back on me, saying don’t be ridiculous, and I’m like, no, YOU don’t be ridiculous, you’ve always been ridiculous, and I push the plate back at her, and her back at me, saying no, and ME saying no much, much louder, and of course by this point in my life I am the stronger of the two, and though I don’t mean it to happen (I hope?) the plate goes right into her chest, the food sliding everywhere, the plate crashing in the ground, and by now my dad has finally sat his ultra-idiotic Fortune magazine down and is racing over saying, “Are you out of your MIND, Pendel?”
And I tried to tell her. I did. “I tried to tell you!” I yelled back. “My stomach hurts! Jesus!”
But it’s too late. Clare is kind of crying a little. She doesn’t understand why I don’t sit around with her anymore. I don’t play. I can’t.
I wonder what we’re all going to do next week, come Taco Night?