What It’s Like to Go to Kroger with the Family

“We need cheese?”

“What do we need?”

“What did you say?”

“What, what did he say?”

“Which said what?”

“Where’s your mom?”

“Um, where’s Mom?”

“My phone’s ringing.”

“It’s your son for you.”

“The Butcher?

“No, the other.”

“No, he’s right here with us.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Mom looks lost.”

“Did you find mom?”

“Did he find mom?”

“I found mom.”

“What’d he say?”

“What’s she want to know?”


My Parents’ Friends

Well, this is unfortunate. My parents are telling their friends about my blog and encouraging them to come read it. While complaining that they are not allowed to (which is not true, though I am glad they don’t read it).

It’s unfortunate because I really don’t want to hurt my parents. Neither do I want them in every aspect of my business. Shoot, I haven’t even told them about the Belmont stuff because I think they’d be uncomfortable. And I’m really proud of that work.

So, folks, if you are reading, fair warning that you may read things that alarm you. Telling my parents about it will not create an opportunity for them to help me or save me or fix me or straighten me out. It will merely upset them and upset me.

I don’t mind if you read along. That’s fine. I’d just ask that you respect that one of the things that has most fucked me up is the propensity for church people my whole life to run and tattle to my parents so that my parents could help me or save me or fix me or properly discipline me in the way those church folks thought was most appropriate.

Don’t add to that.