I picked a bad night to stay home. Dad decided to come over. He's in the bathroom meditating. He's been doing the TM thing for as long as I can remember, but he's still an asshole. No golden light shining through him. I guess you're doomed if you have a black heart.
He told me I looked like I had put on weight.
(yeah, fuck you, I like corn dogs and that's none of your business)
And then he told me I had a zit on my chin. Like I wasn't already über-aware of that stop light and like that stop-light wasn't part of my decision to stay home, under the same roof as that asshole.
He said he would cook for me. Eh, thanks but no thanks. I've had enough soggy tofu casserole to last me a lifetime.
And before I had a chance to shut it out, he'd told me that him and Mag the Hag (one of his many incredibly lame lovers) had practiced sex sans ejaculation and that he felt the Oneness.
Terri called and went on and on about how she'd made out with one of the Arcade Fire members.
While she did that I was feeling up that giant stoplight zit, caressing and squeezing it.
I'll tell you all about how damn easy it is to be a groupie. You don't even have to be cute. Next time.
Over and out, peeps!
TM really does work. Maybe your dad is doing something wrong?
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