My mother beat me

Here’s the story: Family is in town for Christmas. I need clean ways to keep them entertained. Forget the fact that my mother thinks the new poster of me is pretty. She doesn’t realize it’s a porn box cover. Forget that she thinks the picture of  me and the dog in the santa hat is precious. She doesn’t realize the set tells a story and as the story unfolds the dog disappears and shortly after so do my clothes. It’s a exclusive. Speaking of (and mindless product placement)– my web designer had us all over for a dinner party Christmas Eve.

Here’s the thing about alcohol: it’s a depressant. It depresses the senses. Layman’s terms it makes us slow. Dumb. We had wine and spiked egg nog and Thai food and listened to Michael Jackson and some type of eclectic rave music pulled off of my sister’s iPod. My web guy played Chopin on the piano. My mom showed her bra strap and thought she flashed “the whole neighborhood.” Then there was dancing and it was an odd mix but it would have been well worth videotaping. More drinks were poured and I think we started kick boxing. I started kick boxing anyway. Then it turned into a wrestling match of sorts and I was the victim. My mother was the aggressor. She took me down and held me pinned and I tried to tap out but she didn’t realize that meant she was supposed to stop.

Or maybe she did. I’m sure she’s wanted to beat me at least once in the last 23 years. There was the time I confused the gas pedal with the brakes on the quad and the only thing that stopped it was her new car. There was the time I took my new make up kit and used it to make bruise and scratch marks on my friends face then threw a vase against the wall and pretended like we got in a fight and I won. There was the time I got sent home from nap time at kindergarten because I snuck my pet lizard into class and let it sleep on my pillow with me. There was that diamond ring I took to play pretty pretty princess with but lost when we decided to see who could jump the farthest off of dumpsters instead. And the two times I lost my sister. And the sister’s entire toddler period as a human bowling pin at my hands. And there was the neighbor boy whose grandparents told on me when I beat him up. There was the time she walked into a liquor store to get matches for a birthday cake and almost fainted when they were unpacking the April issue of Hustler at the counter. I was on the cover.

So I’ve put her through a few things and I think years of antics that made her fear phone calls during school hours finally caught up to me. The woman didn’t just take me down. She full on tackled me. There was an eerie Matrix moment where she may have been suspended in midair. I’m covered in large swollen rose colored welts. The woman finally got to beat me. Retroactively this is why I’m in porn.   

24540cookie-checkMy mother beat me

My mother beat me

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