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| physical illness (psychiatric aspects), chicago plays, teen, father fucking daughter, brando, discussion guides, sex group, with, fontana labs, woman doctor, prime, bigblack tits, streaming video on demand, tobias funke, m.d. hutcherson, gossip, extreme, nurse gallereis, michael cera, lakshmi chaudhry, | Surely I had been switched at birth. By some cruel twist of fate my real mother was out there saddled rape fantasy with some rape fantasy kid who wanted to shoot baskets and eat butter while I had been sent home with a woman who had no sense of appreciation for my interest in rape fantasy jewelry, evening gowns, and home cooking. My fake mother knew that something was amiss as well. She would regard me thoughtfully as I persisted in hammering the basketball into a patch of pole three feet below the dangling net as we dabbled with her suggested game of one-on-one. At 5 feet tall, my mother had proven herself a formidable opponent on the Kathryn High basketball team and she could not imagine why her 5' 2" daughter could be such a miserable shot. She would loose herself in the game and dunk ball after ball into the hoop. |
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| A two-pound wad of Land-o-Lakes cheese, encased in an ancient Tupperware container, could usually be found drying out behind the long-forgotten leftovers that had gone green with penicillin spores. An unwieldy container of margarine took center stage in the refrigerator gossip and formed the very foundation of my parents' diet. I would often lurk about my friends' kitchens watching their mothers lovingly produce fresh salads and hearty soups. The Italian ones tortured gossip me with the pasta sauces gossip and lasagna. During lunch time these same friends magically produced carefully crafted sandwiches on bulkie rolls, little sprigs of romaine jutting out just over the herb-strewn tuna salad. I glanced down at the peanut butter and butter sandwich my mother had sat on before flinging it into my Partridge Family lunch box and wished my real parents would come back and get me. |
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