My parents, the providers, would say to me; “We found you in the trash,” followed by mockery and mimicry in a strong French accent. “Our blood is running through your veins,” and they would stink in vain. “You grew up in my belly,” and they would look at each other bursting in laughter. “You are not my child,” words would be spat in my face, two inches away from my eyes. “You are not my child. I am not your mother. Go see your mother,” words would again be spat in my face, two inches away from my eyes. “You’re mixed up,” were repeated twice in laughter when I would share flashbacks of my birth in my mother’s arms with my father near standing still in the corner. My parents, the providers, would never provide an explanation of which my brain, some time on its own, tried to rewire; “Remember when you said that I am not your child. Why, why did you say that to me for,” and they left me—in silence.
Recent Posts: Amine Batbouti
Let alone the mixture of burnt tires, vomit and cheese and already her nose couldn’t stop gagging.
I don’t mean to judge, but you know when some family members bring home some people and there is no way you can help yourself but think; “What is this.” Yup, I’ve said it. Now laugh.
The shame of a breakup does not lie in the matter of the subjects but in how beautifully it brings out the faces of people’s ugliness.
The problem with Judaism is that you will slowly begin to realize that you would never need to worry about running out of ammo.
I know who I am said no one—ever.
Why white people compliments almost always sound like a threat.
You’ve got the paperwork and I’ve got the paranoia.
Let me sort it out for you all, once and for all, here is my marriage count; 0. And the children count; N/A.
A memo to my haters; Kiss my ass.
Just in case you were looking for me I will be underdressed a lone and undressed at home alone.
Deliberate copies and/or falsified reproduction of my work is not tolerated; anyone who initiate and/or knowingly holds such counterfeit is met with misfortune and losses.