I keep a catalogue, a mental inventory. There are mothers who paint portraits of cats dressed as Napoleon Bonaparte and mothers who fall asleep drunk on patterns for XXXL pajama pants, and mothers who mouth “fuck you” to their daughter in the backseat when they get lost in the family car and the daughter is trying her best to calm everyone down. Mothers, man. Every time I meet someone’s mother, I think: Fuck. I’m glad my own mother’s dead and that I never knew my mother after I was ...
