Brought to you by the effects of Stockholm Syndrome from holding myself hostage for so many years.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
There's this old lady in a play pen, peeling hard-boiled eggs. I don't know what her name is. She sits there like a prisoner, chewing pitch gum and cussing at imaginary people. Greasy-haired W.C. Fields lookalike with big floppy breasts, one slung over her right shoulder. A mean old lady with swollen feet and ankles, arm flaps and missing teeth. I call her "mom" and pay for her time.