Hey mom you should wake up so we can play some cards, I’m bored.
It’s also 5:30 you’ve been napping for like 2 hours.
My mom and I, we’re friends. That feels lucky, since most of my friends talk nothing but trash about their parents. My mom buys us beer and says don’t tell anyone. My mom has arms covered in tattoos. My mom doesn’t think to hold her f-bombs in our presence and my buddies love that. New friends usually look at me slack-jawed, bulging eyes when they meet my mom. They’re like, HOW. How’d you get so lucky, bro. How does she get away with it, bro. They’re like, how do I take full advantage of this situation. I watch them try to reconcile this with their own moms’ deep Christian morals, the ones they carry deep in them like rocks caught in their left shoe. Ha-ha. I watch the brain wheels turning in their round white heads, inside the helmets of their good boy haircuts. I watch them think what does this mean for the rest of us. I watch them tap their feet and bite their bottom lips and wonder at the solidity of every chunk of mystery meat they’ve ever been forced to chew down at the family dinner table. We eat pizza at 10 pm on a school night. Barefoot in the backyard, passing around a Corona, my mom, sometimes I call her Lucy, “mom” sounds so juvenile, Lucy smoking a cigarette. I watch my friends crush hard on my own mom, ha-ha. It doesn’t make me mad I think it’s funny. I get it. She’s cool, kind of scary.