NonReal Classy

I move the three inch bottle from my purse to my left open sleeve.
I am sitting beside my younger brother who is sitting beside my father who is sitting beside his mom-my 85 year old grandmother- who doesn’t know who we are.

I am in church.

And I take my wrist and i scratch my neck and  Idon’t really care how obvious it is. I want it. So I drink a shot of whatever is in the bottle: vodka,rum,spiced something black licorcie?
I am seeing my fathers brother-my 58 year old Uncle- on the pulpit. But I do not hear what he is saying.
I am thinking about my parents attic. And the entrance to it in my mothers room. ( because my parents sleep in seperate rooms )

I am thinking about how
I mixed vodka with wine earlier.Because I was desperate for potency.

Look at all these ‘I’s. All about me eh. I’ve always been a selfish person. Prooved that in every fricken relationship I ever had.
It’s terrible really .

And I think too,
eventually
I will stop caring about the dynamic between my son and my mother.
Let it be votile. Let he be raised wrong. Let it be out of my hands. It will never change from what it is. She will not change. She is 61.

She is raising him like she raised us.
And we’re all sucks and let her do the dishes and drive us places and she bends like a grass blade in 0 mile an hour wind.

I won’t fight, eventually.
I really won’t .

 

Ohoh!

 

 

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