Mom used to tell me that pissing the bed a lot was something serial killers did but I think that she was just being a bitch. Although I have heard that fun fact from other sources too. But, still, I bet she was just being a bitch. I don’t even like the word “bitch” but when it comes to Mom sometimes it just seems like there’s no other word. Anyway, Mom died five years ago in a terrible accident involving a StairMaster and a bottle of mango flavored VitaminWater. She died in her house, a 19th century Victorian in New Jersey. Despite the fact that she was a total bitch, Mom left the house to me. My friends suggested I sell it.“Why would you want to live in a house your mom died in?” They’d ask.“She died in the house, Francis, let that sink in. That’s really upsetting.” They’d say.“Francis, she didn’t just die in her bed peacefully. She was electrocuted and ripped to pieces by a rogue StairMaster after spilling a mango flavored VitaminWater into its power source. There was hardly. It started to rain again. Loud enough for us to hear it thrum on the roof. ‘I was talking to my mom the other day. She reminded me of when we had this really crazy December storm when I was around nine.’ He talked softly, reminiscing on that long ago winter. He told other stories about growing up. About his family, his terrible cousin Danny that had thrown a rock at him and cut his head open. He had to get five stitches on that day. About his favorite dog, Dunder and how she used to sleep with him every night and how she died in his arms when he was 14. It was all very funny and sad and…comfortable. This was how it always was with Marty. Effortless. So why couldn’t I just forget that my tits sag and that my belly has never been flat and that my ass should have it’s own area code. If Marty wanted to be with me…then he would be with all of me. If he was ok with my self doubt, my pessimism and my obsession with not being good enough, then I would try to accept that maybe… just maybe, I.
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