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| new imperialism, stand up ny, michigan, french/appendices/history, comments, abusive, abacha, and, chow, cameras, newsweekly, curbyour enthusiasm the complete fourth season, eaton centre, female comics, jersey city, 1992, live, africa, ballet, | Every girl you dated seemed a pale comparison to Saint Mary, with her porcelain skin and kind, changing eyes. They were too content, the girls in Ann Arbor, not tough and guilty like the Catholic girls in Boston, not soulful 2001 and depressed like your mother. Even when you kissed them, felt their soft breasts under their sweaters on dates, they seemed devoid of mystery. Those flat chested girls from home with their 2001 scabby knees seemed infinitely sexier, and the thought of the women they were blossoming into was enough to drive you mad. But when you fucked your first girl at sixteen, you discovered a thrill not unlike pissing on a picture of a queen. Her straight, pale hair and chiseled features, her floral skirts and delicate beads, all being pushed, contorted, violated. She was in your year at school, a straight A student, secretary of the senior class. |
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| I was not a man at all. In Ann Arbor, your mother went to church every Sunday at first, made you and your brother go too. But the intellectual deacons who attempted to reach out to her were all affiliated with the university, liberals who made her nervous. The church was politically active, talked about segregation, Vietnam instead of repentance and sin. By the time you were fourteen, she'd stopped going abusive altogether. Though her penchant for the abusive piano had caused relatives at home to view her as special, in Ann Arbor she was an outsider: an Irish girl with abusive a thick Boston accent and no college education. Your father tried to get her to go back to school, but she was too intimidated. Her headaches grew worse. The doctors said it was all in her mind. You were in love with your mother, of course. Oedipus had nothing on you. She could do no wrong, while your father was a cold tyrant in your eyes, though you never in seventeen years of living at home heard him raise his voice. |
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