I announced defiantly."Forsooth!" she pissed about plays
daughter, mother seduces son, interfaith marriage, mad about, overheardnew york, melbourneindymedia, drunk spring break girl, brand, plays, audio, screen, drunk sex, branding, mom and son, drunk whore, david eggers, 1990, drunk college girl, I look down and my knees are like ruddy ears, laughing at my plight. My toes are in knots that shall take weeks to untangle. My shins hum with static, barking at one another. The sound is unbearable. My breasts kick angrily downwards at my thighs, while in between, my sweet vagina weeps..."Carol went on like pissed about this for a while. When she had finished I couldn't think of pissed about an adequate retort so I yielded to her demands and invited her in. pissed about I sat playing Emlyn Hughes International Soccer on my Sinclair ZX Spectrum +3 for a couple of hours while she sniffed at my neck. "This should keep her going for a few more months," I thought to myself. (stusut79, Tue 13 Sep 2005, 11:43) Not a story, just an observation I think being a mother-in-law is actually a genetic condition, and you can't help it.My mum is ace, she has a heart of gold and I really couldn't have picked a better one, she's readily available for tea and sympathy, takes me shopping when I'm poor, and cooks the best fish pie under the sun.
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I announced defiantly."Forsooth!" she persisted. "Shalt thou not lend me thine shoulder that I may inhale thy sickly scent?" I knew what she wanted. Even though her plays daughter's ashes had been scattered liberally around the Disney Store in Manchester's Arndale Centre almost three years previously, plays Carol still maintained that she could smell her on me. "Carol," I pleaded. "Thou art mother in law and in law alone. Not in heart, nor mind, nor breast. Not in blood, nor milk, nor in the eyes of the Lord."Carol would not plays be told. "But sire, I implore ye! Thou art my son in law and in deed, in memory and in soul. My need to smell the floral tones of my daughter's loins from the nape of thine waxy neck is volcanic in its magnitude and brutal in its dogged determination. I awake under moonlight, bile gargling like cold tea in the well of my parched throat. I retch in the darkness.
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