How to Be a Good Mother to Me
Alec Niedenthal

I deface decidedly the limestone table every morning. I fail to sign my name with a gouge I fail to account, mornings, for. Every one—morning—that I am awake I do that, and I am decisively a morning person.

I drive a truck with eighteen wheels, though suspect that one has, or has very nearly, rolled neatly completely off and away.

My single nights I spend together with many good wives and young, different races. I order them to spread their selves, and each other, and generally and generously circle that stuff around in my face, or the pansexual face of each other.

I strafingly trace the tones of their holes with the up-flipped tip of my tongue.

Mornings, I awake, and stick around and stiffly surround the table. I video chat with my mother, and the girlfriend, and they are mostly the same experience. "Say your prayers for me, uh, I think I am going to be run over by a car,” my mother might say. The girlfriend I command daringly to dance.

It is raining, or unoriginally on fire, outside. I hide inside to wipe wetly everyone’s ass.

I am often mistaken, indoors, for someone who is watching someone else spread their stubbly stuff nudely on full-screen in the rain.

Return to Archive