so about five seconds ago my penny jar exploded... dont even ask me how!pennies everywhere... glass in my candy jar, my room is now a wreck.i just wrote a story! took like an hour...
We Are What Our Mothers Say We Are
By Joel Porteous
“I don’t want to,” explained Egburt.“You have to!” his mother said, grinning as she tried to hide her smirk. “Do you understand how embarrassing this is?”“You will survive, it’s only a hair cut,” his mother reassured him.
The next day while the elevator door opened, Egburt was stopped by a very disgruntled boss.
“This is unacceptable! That hair cut is utterly inappropriate for this kind of work! Good thing you still live at home, because I’m calling your mother!” “Good luck with that, she’s the one that picked it out” he said with a look of disappointment on his face.
Ever since Egburt could remember he was being controller by his mother. She would always tell him that since his dad was gone, and still at war, he would have to be the man of the house. What Egburt didn’t realize at the time is that when your mother says you are the man of the house, this means you are the property of hers forever! And she is going to make you completely and utterly dependant on her. His mother got him a job at the town bank as an accountant to bring in money for the two of them, meanwhile she spent most of it gambling, going to spas, and hitting on other men. Egburt didn’t mind, after all, this is what he was raised to do.
One day after the weekly day of shopping for shoes, tuxes, and hair jelly, Egburt’s mother decided that he needed a hair cut. Though strongly disagreeing with this impulsive whim, Egburt had no choice but to get the hair cut that he never thought he would own. She dropped him off, paid the dresser, wrote down what she wanted his hair to look like, and took off for the nearest mall. Though profusely trying to see what was written down on the card, and trying to look in the mirror as the dresser cut his locks, Egburt had no say in the matter, what mommy wants, mommy gets. So he sits, and he waits. Sweat is slowly dripping down his face as he anticipates the fruit of this unruly lady who hold the key to his professionalism in her soft and abrasive hands.
She is done, the hair feels light and he can see his hair streaming down his face. He had always combed it back into a ponytail with hopes of one day letting the beast run wild, shaking his majestically silky hair to the nations as he wanted to become the bass player for the almighty southern rock group: The Avengers. Of course this was a silly and unmentionably unlikely dream… or so he thought.
His mother returned, bags in hand, hair messed up from running, breathing heavily as she stared right into Egburt’s left eye (seeing as how his right eye was covered in hair). She threw the bags, ran over to him, and held his face in her sweaty, wrinkly old hands.
“You’re perfect!” she proclaimed in an oddly declarative manner. “What are you talking about? Let me see my hair.” He said nervously, not knowing what to think. Was it bad? Was it good? Is it what I want or what she wants? Do I have the same good looks? Does it cover too much of my face? What about my Southern Rock dream?
None of that mattered now; the moment of truth has come upon them. The hair dresser goes into the closet to get a mirror. Her steps seemed endless with suspense and shear horror at thought of looking in the mirror and seeing some kind of punk staring back at him. The time has come; she holds the mirror backwards, slowly turns it around. Egburt leans into the direction of the turning mirror, almost as to try and see himself before his mother is in the frame with him. It stops, he can’t speak, it’s emo.
This was his worst nightmare, emo hair. His mother seems ecstatic! He stands there with his mouth swung open; he looks at himself, looks at his mother, looks at himself, looks at his mother, turns around and walks out the door. This is the first time since kindergarten when he decided to burn a hole in the wallpaper of his bedroom that he has dared to defy the breathless, abstract, and vigorously rigorous hold of his mother.
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it's and english project... i dont write for fun! besides this... even though writing it was fun... whatever!
flip! law test tomorrow! i am blogging instead of studying... this is not good... i also have to do some stupid story answer sheet for some stupid story we read in english... this sucksoh well i have my health right?!
