She slapped me. How was I supposed to react to that? I cannot possibly remember the last time she hit me. But this time, I really brought it out of her. She couldn’t accept a gay son and God in the same home, so she kicked me out and let me fend for myself. She said that “God doesn’t like fags and would never house one if it even spoke a word.” But the bitch couldn’t tell a pickle from a cucumber, so how am I to believe that God wouldn’t house me? She was as senile as a five foot pole and as crazy as I’d like to believe. The woman raised me to believe that Jesus accepted everyone, but when it came to act out on that love, she ran faster than AIDS.
Actually, I lie. My mother was a great mother with all the other great mothers and wonderful dads-they were all just as dandy and precise. They congregated around each other during potluck and spoke about how great the sermon was that Pastor Parker had just given while the homeless gathered around the community center trying to garnish some clothes. I’m sure they all loved feeding their scraps to the like.
Now, you ask me to speak of my mother and expect me to sanctify her, but she never did anything kind for me but curse my birth and speak of eternal damnation.
Actually, I lie. She did buy me a Blow Pop, once. May she rest in peace. Amen.
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