The next message came from my mom. Her phonebook name’s “Mom Jezebelle”; not because her name’s Jezebelle but because she has “Jez-pulgadas-bilbel” (ten inches of flab/love handles).The message spoke of horses and whips and pains and winning and stuff (see first paragraph of the first part of this entry). I replied with “That’s highly debatable, besides I’m not a horse. Morning Mom.”
I proceeded to stir black power into my mug of boiling water. After performing the blow-and-sip ritual, I dragged my sleepy carcass to the bathroom to relieve my bladder. “There you go again, my sarcastic son. You’re over - intellectualizing things again. It’s a start of a new day, take it easy, will you? The world is already filled with sour people, don’t add up. Jerk!”
Of course she didn’t put the last word, I just made it up. Moms don’t just call their sons jerk; unless you really are one. But had I been my own parent, I would’ve called myself a jerk.
“I know Mom, a new day. So what’s in it for me? Kidding! God, I need a haircut. Could you spare me some dough there mother? Love yah.”
“Whatever happened to ‘independence’? And ‘it defeats the purpose ma’? You have a job, pay for it. Better yet, chop it off yourself. Haha. Mind the wrinkles son, loosen up. And easy on the smoking; million dead cells remember? Love you too, nak.”
“Mama? Mama…”
“Okay, collect it from the bank. God bless.” She is so charming.
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