A grip. What I need is that. Or, if you want to get scientific, what I really need is a place to bleed.
‍

That one week. One month later. Three months later. Twenty-three years later. No—actually, a couple decades before—or whenever cattle start clinging.
‍

This is how gossip works. This is how rumors solidify. The public demands concrete information. The truth happens.
‍

Mom was badly torn when I was born. Dad wiped her in the bathroom for weeks. Mom says this is the mark of a real man.
‍

I got so fucked up last night. I wasn’t sure about the lions on the side of the bus. The new boys at the zoo? The old gang at the museum?
‍

When I was little, and Dad was away on business, Mom would order us Chinese, and we’d watch romcoms on the couch. (I know. You didn’t ask. But just take it.)
‍

I have a throat. A sore one. Oh, I worry about strep a lot. Those stories about people who don’t realize they have strep throat until it turns into sepsis—and they start losing their limbs—really get to me.
‍

Babysitting Uncle and I were watching CNN when he excused himself to sniff white powder in the bathroom, and I was eight years old. It was all the time, and this was just one of those times—because he didn’t lock the door, and I saw some tears.

Uncle was living in the East Village. His girlfriend was living in the West Village. Their best friend, Evan Andersen, was living in Middle Village, in Queens. Uncle told me all about it. “We do not benefit from each other. We are just drowning in each other’s sweat. You can’t just assume all dogs are friendly to themselves. Things could always look uglier.”
‍

Lola, freshly groomed from the salon, was always the most beautiful sight. Shampooed and blow dried, pink bows in her hair. In time, I would come to understand this was something only for the poodles––the bows, that is. Lola was a Standard. This one time Lola must’ve rolled around in some animal guts, because she smelled disgusting, and she'd just returned from the groomer.

Mom attacked Lola with a bottle of perfume. Which made her smell worse.
‍

Older Half-Brother had sex with his high school girlfriends in crazy ways—I was eight again, and I didn’t know what I was hearing. Relentless. All the time. He liked girls too much.

In my head: I can still hear them in his room. He used to buy those books about how to get the ladies to drink your Kool Aid. His dreams: smeared in need, always.

He knew how to cut loose on me, too. The beatings were well deserved. I had no idea how to listen. (No, but in all seriousness, I was a very wet, very yellow child.)
‍

When I was a little kid, Mom said violent media was having a negative effect on me.

Kindergarten. First Grade. Second Grade. Most parents wouldn’t allow playdates with me.

What was I supposed to do? Change?
‍

Older Half-Brother also showed me disgusting videos like the BME Pain Olympics and beautiful websites like Giant Jugs Dot Com. I wish I hadn’t stayed in his room and watched them.
‍

I suspect that, on some level that is fundamental, I respect myself.
‍

I met this fellow so down bad on his luck last night at the bar. He'd just been the victim of an utterly tragic disinheritance. He was seriously considering suicide. I just listened and nodded and met his eyes and didn’t encourage him––but had a hard time blaming him.

He leaned in.

I’m not good enough. Maybe I’m, you know, garbage. And the rest of you are priceless. And I’m never going to fit in here. I was the worst, a rancid mixture: fifty per cent moron, fifty per cent stupid insensitive cocksucking idiot. Also, that best friend is famous now, and I don’t want to believe it. I’m such a suicidal moron––like, when I finally do it, I’ll probably put a toaster in the oven.

I nodded.

My life: an undeniable blowjob. Maybe the most evil thing I have ever felt in my life. And I fucking hate my representative, Representative Ronald Goldman––what a self-styled asshole.

I patted my own arm.

Don’t have a racist bone in my body, but I am afraid of Chinese tap water. What a liberating experience the other night in Mother’s kitchen. Everything you know about Joseph Stalin is wrong. Why is my bad side acting generous these days?

He grabbed my hand.
‍

Once, during the summer, with Charlie M., when we were eleven––god, I was just the biggest flirt back then (I was soooooo obsessed with lemonade)––or twelve, waiting in line for the movies, I spotted a female classmate with her mother. They were ahead of us, a little.

“Goddamn! Lilybeth got fat!” I remarked to Charlie M. Her mother heard, turned herself around, made the most terrible face at me––there were so many things in her one face. I’d no idea that, for the rest of my life, I’d pay for this––karmically, in excruciating installments.

I still feel sick about what I said. I try to make myself feel better about it all the time; I tell myself that it’s perfectly normal to be cruel when you're little. I tell myself that the daughter and mother don't think about me. It’s simple: they have forgotten.
‍

It’s a headache filled with tension, a conspiracy to murder itself, an arsonist out of laziness.

It’s so hard to talk about sad things on the phone. It’s too cold to get something done.
‍

I am standing outside. It is monsooning.

And my biggest fear? Not getting back what I put in by a long shot. Also: wounds that refuse to heal. And please don’t cut my balls off. And please accept my narrative.
‍

Thousands of nights ago, I asked my math tutor what would happen if I joined this new viciously murderous terrorist group that was in the news every five minutes. What would happen if I traveled overseas to them? Taking up their cause, embracing their thuggish religious ideology and explosive brutality? I was big on distractions back then. My tutor, a thoughtful person, took a moment, then went, “Well, they’d use you for propaganda, probably…” I’m half-Jewish. A New Yorker, too. A teenager then as well. The terrorists could use all that. He said, “Their literature and slickly produced videos: you’d be the star for a little while.” He scratched his cheek with an eraser. “Then, they’d still torture you to death, probably.”
‍

On the subway after the disinherited fellow, but before the lions on the bus: SUCK THE SHIT OUT MY ASS YOU FUCKING FAGGOT BITCH. Again and again, she screamed that. And then she spat all over the orange seats and filthy floor. Another rider, wearing a ski mask, minding his own business, was smoking crack––a rose in a glass!
‍

And, above the ski mask, Poetry in Motion:

‍

Butterflies From Heaven

‍

I’m never hungry like this.

You all expect too much of me.

I think I spread myself too thin.

Sometimes I’m so excited I can’t sleep.

I think my parents need a marital drug.

I would love to be used for propaganda.

I love the feeling of methylphenidate hydrochloride in the spring.

I’m blown away. Flesh and blood. Don’t get me started. Can’t afford to get started again.

*

Time equals money.

Nicole Brown Simpson.

Too easy to make promises.

I haven't worked a day in my life.

My boredom: a slow and terrible sickness.

Most of the people in my life are horny and as dumb as dog shit.
‍

Last summer, a young woman in Chicago flushed her newborn down the toilet. Her downstairs neighbors heard crying in the pipes. I guess the baby survived the pipes because he was used to the womb. When I read this, I thought: It must be so hard, young and pregnant in Chicago in August. And: Such a pointless conspiracy of silence around the excruciating pain of childbirth.
‍

Mom says a daughter's only as good as her father. She says that if her father's gone bad, you can kiss that daughter goodbye. Sort of like when there’s a crime across the street from a police station, or a fire across the street from a fire station, and I have always been grateful that I don’t have a sister.
‍

Late last night, after the long, hard day of God-knows-what, I took off my jacket and saw this guy on death row. His story was on my TV: adoring wife, strong marriage, terrific kids; great job, nice car, big house—whole nine yards. He began infecting Westchester soccer moms with HIV-contaminated blood. His stealthy pinpricks went down at the supermarket. Those mothers were minding their business, pushing their shopping carts, palming peaches, and then their worst nightmare would just brush past them.

Some men. You can only take them to water. When they start getting subversive. When they start forgetting promises. When they start biting the hand that feeds. You try running back. You want to release him from confinement. You can’t do much. Now, if he walks into the room right now, you’ve never seen him before in your life.
‍

A week ago tomorrow night: a strip club, my first time. It was exactly as I expected. I went with Charlie M. He’s ripped nowadays. Surprisingly sensitive. Alone inside. He once said to me, “I have spent my life so far trying to drag everyone else down to my level––and then, after all that, I still cross a line with them.” Charlie M. is always too hard on himself.

We had a bite on the way. We drank champagne and whiskey all night at the strip club. I found myself talking to this Irish American stripper as soon as we walked in: broad shoulders, almost middle-aged; born, raised, and living on Staten Island. She was interested in giving me a lap dance––twenty dollars.

Charlie M. was laughing to himself in the corner. He thought she was busted. Totally busted.

Charlie M. was carrying cash that night. He carries cash most nights. He’s a high roller, always a thick wad of bills on him, leaving big first impressions all over the place.

He lives at Walnut Properties. His current girlfriend is a real trophy.

I wasn’t interested in getting a lap dance. I was still very much madly in love with my ex-girlfriend. A week later, I am still madly in love with her.

She and I both were terrible hypochondriacs. We both were terribly fixated on stomach cancer and schizophrenia. Cannibals refer to humans as long pigs, and we loved that. The chlamydia outbreak among koala bears in Australia—we thought it adorable and devastating.

We loved each other so much. We loved watching movies together. We often quoted this one moment in Brokeback Mountain, when the Basque character (a very small role) tells Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal, “it’s too early in the summer to be sick of beans.”

She was hilarious. She thought the KKK was some coastal nonprofit—an insane but innocent misunderstanding from early childhood somehow never addressed, just never grabbed and shook—and I never bothered to correct her, because it was almost too endearing. (Did you know the KKK protested KISS concerts in the Bible Belt in the 1970s?)

She was smart. She was a rich girl who still lived at home with her parents, and she could recite the ABCs backward. Her dad has a swimming pool in the basement. We spent long, easy hours poolside in the basement.

Talking.

Reading.

Relaxing.

Her grandmother––her mother’s mother with just a touch of comedic dementia––lives with them.

Her aunt––a famous vocalist––lives with them, too.

Her sister has Down syndrome, and everyone says she’s beautiful. They call her that beautiful girl with Down syndrome.

Her pitbull, Klonopin, still has his balls. My ex-girlfriend insists, and he is always extremely horny.

Every Easter, a pink bunny rabbit hops by to visit.

Her family is quite close with each other—I think they liked me.

I should’ve asked her about her days; I should’ve sat down; I should’ve listened; I should’ve made her a beautiful young bride without a clue.

But I didn’t, and I didn’t, and I didn’t, and why didn’t I?

She was speaking.

I would like to meet her in real life at a coffee shop again. I would like to get back together at some point right now.

There was this one time when I broke her heart all day long in the garden––but I don’t want to talk about that––too painful, I wasn’t kind.

Yeah: Happiness was truly Michelle.

And the girlfriend before Michelle: a real cold stony demeanor. She, too, was a rich girl. She believed in nothing. She stood for nothing. Her personality was linoleum flooring, fluorescent lighting. All she wanted was brunch, and even that, only sometimes. I did find her attractive, though; I mean, I’d never ever say this aloud, but her sexual tissue was unreal…

Anyway, I was just stalling—wasting the stripper’s time. I was mostly asking her questions about herself. She didn’t seem to mind much. So, um, how long you been working here? Since November, she says. Says she likes the place okay. Says she used to dance at this club in Queens called Gallagher's 2000.

And then we talked about her kids: a boy named Christopher and a girl named Justine.

And then we talked about murderers. Her favorite murderer was Ted Bundy. I told her Ted Bundy was an atrocious basketball player—“So I heard,” I said. "For real?" she said. "For real," I said. Her accent––the streets––up and down them. (I did not tell her that in the summer of 1968 Ted Bundy earned a scholarship to study intensive Chinese at Stanford.) "So, um, how long you been working here?" I asked again.

Charlie M. was still laughing in the corner—maybe it just looked like laughter, but hurt like pain?

And then Charlie M. came over and handed her a twenty on my behalf and she gave me a lap dance and Charlie M. returned to the corner.

She took my hands to her unnatural breasts––bigger than God’s eyes. What a cheap thrill––indeed, my hands: where she could feed them.

She did not look like she was enjoying herself. She looked like she was working. I certainly wasn’t enjoying myself. I wondered what her main source of nutrition was.

I suddenly felt very rough around the edges; I suddenly wanted to be the suicide that keeps you up at night. I was thinking about Michelle. I kept thinking about her family—about them watching me get the lap dance. Yeah, in my head, her parents, grandmother, aunt, sister, and pitbull were just watching me––without judgement, which only made it worse…

Meanwhile, a spoiled Persian brat with a mean streak surprisingly minded his own business. (It’s difficult to elaborate on the brat, but I just knew that’s what he was, and he was there at the next table.) And a pack of bloodthirsty desperados took a load off in the center of everything; they were such threatening types—all dressed up, neat and clean—with eyes like they didn’t have them. Some of them were bursting out of their sleeves––they had all the right tattoos on their hands, a chorus of ink and initiation. I couldn’t help but think about the ugly prices they’ll eventually pay for choosing that life. A registered member was recently convicted in the brutal stabbing murder of a teenage girl from Sunset Park. He had been smoking crack with her in his bedroom and then stabbed her in the neck fifteen times on New Year’s Eve. He left her to die in the parking lot beneath him. He’d dragged her down there. The police recovered his DNA from under her fingernails; she fought back and got pieces of him; scratches on his neck when they questioned him. I want my daughter! went the girl’s mother in the courtroom after the verdict.

At the end of the dance, the stripper offered a more private one in the back room—but that would’ve surely cost more than twenty dollars, plus Michelle and her parents, grandmother, aunt, sister, and pitbull. I graciously declined her offer, but I have to admit, I was curious about the back room and what goes on there… Then I began to despise her for my curiosity. And then I began to despise myself, too—her for mentioning it, me for wanting it.

After the stripper and I parted ways, Charlie M. got us more drinks, and then leaned over and shouted in my ear that he’d successfully directed an extremely tasteful pornographic work the night before—under the BQE, in the back of a U-Haul, with some NYU students he’d found online.

Don’t get it twisted, though—Charlie M.’s been through it—I’m always reminding myself––I’m talking about a rough and expensive life here. For instance, his childhood home—a creamy mansion in Brooklyn Heights—is crowded with framed nudes of his immediate family. (Yes, framed nudes of Charlie M., too.) His parents believe that these photos constitute tasteful photography; most of the black-and-whites were taken in the early to mid-90s, when his parents were growing the family. Some of the photos were taken on deserted, beautiful beaches. Some of the photos were taken in extra-large double-ended bathtubs. Hey! It should be me and Michelle: stunning beaches and gigantic baths—not Charlie M.’s naked family! In the pictures, Allison M., Charlie M.’s mother, comes across as a veritable goddess; in contrast, William M., Charlie M.’s father, is tall and big, soft and pale, wealthy and flaccid. And then, of course, the little kids—Charlie M. and his siblings, Lena M., Jane M., and Patrick M.—are all splashing around, tiny and naked, grinning carefree. All four of them, now young adults, constantly beg their parents to take the pictures down. Allison and William refuse fiercely.

In fact, last Christmas there was a disgusting family meltdown—everyone went too far.

I happened to stop by. To see if Charlie M. wanted to hang out.

He opened the door, let me in, and went back to fighting.

I sat on the sofa for around fifteen minutes.

Nobody seemed to notice me.

The photos were the main subject.

Naturally, though, that subject bled into others. It was worse than the Christmas bombings of North Vietnam.

And so, these days, the kids just tell themselves the photos have nothing to do with them.

And then I was waiting for a free urinal at the club. After all that champagne and whiskey and survival. And I was feeling kind—generous, even.

“You go ahead," I said to the fellow behind me.

Hello, Pink Caucasian Finance Brother!

And so he went ahead, beside himself with gratitude.
‍

Yvonne:

Yvonne: She’s Polish.

Yvonne: She smells like talcum powder.

Yvonne really lives in her green Dodge minivan. She spends a lot of time at the gym. She showers there. She loves that infrared booth. She says it's terrific for the complexion. She makes a perfect nbed. She’s a much better seamstress than she is a cleaner. Mom loves the duvet covers she makes. Yvonne says you never need to buy a duvet cover, you can just make them. She takes two flat sheets and sews them together. She sang on cruise ships. She cruised the world. One night, a vacationing Marine was in the audience, and Yvonne was smitten. The Marine made many promises. He said he was from Texas. He did not give specifics. They spent the bittersweet night together. He gets off the cruise the next morning in Aruba. She is unable to forget him. In our house, she preferred the windows closed. The government was using insects to spy. She was resentful of Jews for getting all of the attention in the Holocaust. She explained that Hollywood producers were currently raping and burning children alive. She was offended by meat. Things always went deep with her. One day, my mom comes home with fresh mozzarella and parma ham. She offers Yvonne a sandwich, and Yvonne loses her mind. My mom was straight up poisoning us, and Yvonne wasn’t going to be poisoned. How could I possibly forget her? I think of Yvonne whenever I stub my toe and staple my finger.
‍

Allison M., Charlie M.’s mother, cries whenever her sons tell dirty jokes at the dinner table.
‍

The many memories I’d like to throw away—sometimes it feels like they’re all married to the pornography I hate… What pornography does to the people I’m supposed to love, what pornography does to everyone.

I’m not very photogenic. I’m on the edge of my seat. I’m sorry about any irrelevant details.

A silencer?

Yes, that.
‍

Another night after another long, hard day of God-knows-what, I came home dirty and just threw myself on my dirty bed. My life was a lifetime. Everything was for a reason. My bedroom ceiling was a straight-up mystery. I was sneezing secrets. I rubbed my eyes, and blindness burst into explosive, impossible patterns. I thought about tap water, pop culture, loose lips sinking ships, and the federal government of the United States of America. Those were just some of the things that took my heart away.
‍

It’s like the guy in the bar said to me: It’d be evil to commit suicide in my childhood home.

Selfish, selfish, shellfish.

I’ve heard it all before.
‍

In my worst dreams, the presiding judge lists the seven deadly sins and then addresses me: There is something horribly wrong with you. And I know what it is.

In my worst dreams, nobody knows who I am. I barely leave the house, and when I do, I never say a word.

In my worst dreams, faces leave the windows so quickly I know they’re always watching me.

In my worst dreams, I steal candy from worms—just because they’re worms.
‍

At the pharmacy the other day. The cashier asked if I wanted to donate to children’s cancer research. No! Just wanted the laundry detergent. And my longtime antidepressant.

Also, I swear I’m not some sexist jerk, but I hate when women change. My hang-up. Not theirs.

Sue me. Sue me now. Sue me more.
‍

In the shower this morning, I jerked off. I thought about some of the young women I know. I made them do things, which they enjoyed with simplicity. I have mental rules—these can’t be people I’ve actually touched, and certainly never Michelle. I let myself lose debates with myself in the shower all the time. I think the give and take is a sign of maturity and strength.
‍

My life is not a nightmare.

“Man, your life is the nightmare,” says Charlie M. always and right now. Well, maybe one day I’ll pay him back double for the lap dance––the joke’ll be on him.

(Forty dollars.)
‍

I got to college in Vermont and lost my virginity at every opportunity. Then, stricken with a terrible case of agoraphobia, I had a hard time leaving my room. I couldn’t go outside without vomiting. A quiet nervous breakdown. I left school for good. It's just that sometimes you go from solitary confinement to compassionate release so fast, you forget how to look at yourself in the mirror. When you finally remember, you think you’re going to get sick all over again.
‍

Charlie M.'s brother, Patrick M., recently ran into an LDS missionary with his car. She, a mildly acne-scarred redhead with a tremendous pair of you-know-whats (according to Patrick M.), ran into some insurance money—good for her!

Charlie M.’s sister, Lena M., got drunk last weekend and cheated on her boyfriend of three years, and he broke up with her. She got drunk again, took a tumble down some stairs and broke her arm, and her cast is a million dollars long.

Charlie M.’s other sister, Jane M., is a straight up angel—I have never been more sure of anything in my life. (She’s actually paid a proper salary to write about astrology.)

I will always pay attention to that family.
‍

And it’s funny—I often recall giving a presentation on angel dust in a college course called Drugs and the Brain. I showed a short clip from a ’70s public service documentary narrated by Paul Newman, in which a tiger is darted with angel dust from outside its cell to be anesthetized for transport to surgery.
‍

I’m feeling pretty good about myself and all the decisions I’ve ever made. I am not thinking about the end. My heart hasn’t been drawn to my throat. I remember the day my favorite rapper died.

There were fast cars everywhere. I was only six years old. I was a pretty skinny kid growing up, and it was really hard when I gained a few pounds in my twenties. At the rehab facility, some of the group therapists were also licensed massage therapists.

I am very high on painkillers—a small practice of mine.

Some of my lies are brilliant, rehearsed to flawlessness. I’m naked right now.
‍

Equine therapy. I really liked brushing their long manes. The most well-endowed horse was Scooter. He had an enormous one. This was pre-castration. The stable hand said the surgery was scheduled for after Christmas. What’s left then?
‍

I wish I was a vegetarian. I wish I cared more about animals. I wish I was a professional skateboarder. I wish I could throw certain memories away. I wish I could throw everyone I know away. I wish I was not a professional couch potato. I wish I could order the whole goddamn menu. I want to be a hilarious genius. I want a strong sense of completion. I want to shock the world with my brilliance. I want to peel back the rubber masks everyone wears. I want to be a zookeeper who frees animals––or an expressionist painter. I want to stand in the same room as a wonderful dream. I want to become a professional, a young man who loves his work. I want to run—run, run, run—into the sun, and into the next life.

I need to get on the right side of childhood amnesia. I can only remember parts of things. And some things are so hard to say.

And here’s something new that might amuse you: Late one night, I was in the hospital with severe abdominal pain, and after some morphine and an X-ray, the nurse told me the results: "You are literally full of shit.”

I would like to confront my pain, overcome my fears, and accept my past.
‍

This place—my current place—a forgettable place––is full of people who look like they were born here.

Worst things: tsunamis, a mother dying, a root canal. Best things: off-color jokes, grandchildren’s laughter, a hundred-dollar bill.

Some real dirty trash trapped inside my otherwise clean heart. And what does it feel like when a heart skips a beat? Am I capable of contrition? You have to ask yourself! Turn the lights on––my neck might be filled with hickeys––there's a butterfly trapped inside my otherwise clean heart.
‍

This part of the story makes me look really bad. This part of the story is the funny part of the story. This part of the story is about lonely Saturday nights. This part of the story is about the most fantasizing part of me. This part of the story is about the wasp that just stung me––the palm of my hand. This part of the story is about how we survive our families; this part is about how we don’t—you know, the impossibilities of households bound by blood.
‍

Thirteen years ago, I really had to use the bathroom.

I opened the door and walked straight into Older Half-Brother masturbating to a pornographic magazine. (I believe it was the April 2006 issue of Hustler, Volume 32, No. 11.) He lunged, pinned me to the floor, and barked, “Bedrooms and bathrooms—you knock!”

He’d been on the verge of frenzy since his girlfriend announced she had perfect blowjob lips at our family dinner the night before. My mother had to excuse herself. She didn’t return to the table.

I started crying in the bathroom—pinned, hungry, overwhelmed, twelve years old. I’d been planning on asking if he wanted to get fast food with me later. White Castle or Papa Johns—that was the big question. I even wanted him to choose.

He released me. I wiped my tears and headed to the bathroom in my father’s study. I opened the door. An orange crocodile briefcase I had never seen rested on the carpet under the desk. I didn’t have to pee anymore. My tears were forgotten. I kneeled and opened the briefcase, and here’s what I found.

1) Vial of cocaine.

2) Fancy butt plug.

3) Bottle of amyl nitrite.

4) Magazines and DVDs.

5) Fancy dildo with an electric current.

6) Unused bumper sticker: I don’t like fundraisers—I like funraisers!

A day would come when I could identify these items exactly; that afternoon, I felt their meaning.

The boys from the magazines and DVDs were late teens just starting their lives. They were stuck inside my father’s briefcase. They didn’t care. They were smiling. These Boys Just Can't Keep Their Dicks in Their Pants. Those boys were harder than hard. Their erections pierced their short shorts. They pretended not to notice. They all looked like Older Half-Brother. They knew something I didn’t. They were laughing at me. I started to hate them. I have hated them for so long. I want so badly to forgive them, but I just can’t.

My discovery instantly felt like some type of blackmail––but who was being blackmailed?––and why hadn’t he made an effort to hide the briefcase?

Oh! But! Exhilarated! I felt exhilarated!

I soon realized that I was in a state of shock. I soon noticed that I had pissed my pants.

I exploded out of his office. I was running. I ran—ran, ran, ran, ran—into the sun, and into the next life.

Now I think maybe I made up my mind too quickly. I did not give my father a fair trial. I didn’t understand the complications of complicated things. But he had no right to lie––or, I mean, to be a sloppy liar.

Well, I’m older now, and I want to apologize to my father. And to the boys. For running away.
‍

If you don’t like your name, change it. If you don’t like clowns, skip the circus.
‍

Did you know that you should never wrap a credit card in tin foil? Did you know most elderly men have prostate cancer when they die? They don’t die from it—they die with it.
‍

Why is it so easy for people to be mean to you? a shallow old friend once asked me.
‍

Sunset Chris—Charlie M.’s first drug dealer—helped destroy Charlie M.’s relationship with his mother––and me with mine too.

My mother—tough love—kicked me out of the house; I could come back when I saw sense. I slept on Charlie M.’s bedroom floor. I heard his dreams. The good ones and the bad ones.
‍

Everything I have told you is what getting away with something looks like.
‍

Well, Norman Bates wishes he could apologize for other people. I mean, that’s what he says, and I believe him. He leans against the desk in his office. He smirks a little. He says his hobby is stuffing things. You know, taxidermy.

‍