Okay, everyone, here's the deal.
Sometimes I write things just to get them out of my head. Once in a while, after writing on them for just a short time, these characters are satisfied and are laid to rest. Sometimes I go back to these and finish the story and other times they stay in the basement of my mind forever.
With these Manic Monday posts, we are going to visit the basement.
See something you like? Shout it out in the comments. I may just have to pick up writing that book again.
First Manic Monday post is from a book I titled: Milk Jars.
When I was twelve, my mother made me wear a sign in my driveway that read ‘I enjoy being a girl.’
With hearts on it. And glitter.
That same day she gave me a copy of The Bell Jar.
I didn’t know which way was up.
She made me wear dresses.
She told me I didn’t need a man.
Red lipstick stained my mouth by sixteen.
But I’d never been kissed.
She gave me an ice pick and told me to cross my legs.
She gifted me a purse and told me to carry a gun.
All the while we shattered glass and watched the blood trickle down to our toes.
Then cleaned it up ourselves.
And did the ironing.
I try not to hate my life.
I really do try.
These are my thoughts as we pass by another table full of knick-knacks that no one wanted in the first place, much less secondhand. Everything smells like mildew. Saturdays smell like musty clothes left too long in storage units or in the attic.
We go to garage sales. Most people go to them sporadically if they’re looking for something vintage or something they can’t find at a department store.
My mom and I are habitual garage sale people.
I am by association, simply because she won’t let me get my license.
It’s another thing that makes no sense in my life.
I ran my finger along the titles in the ever-present paperback section and stopped dead on a yellowing copy of On the Road by Jack Kerouac. “How much is this?” I threw the words over my shoulder at the balding man keeping a tight clutch on the cash box.
“Sign says twenty-five cents.”
“More books, Ramzi?”
Another contradiction I had to endure. My mother is breathing, smoking enigma. She claimed to want me to be educated but bemoans every trip to the library.
And buying books. She always rags my ass for buying books.
“I’ll throw some out.”
“Sure you will. I’m not paying for that, by the way.”
“I have money. Thank you.”
I rolled my eyes at myself for thanking her.
My thighs are sticking together in the humid Louisiana summer.