My mother used to sleep in an airplane bathroom. Her father was a pilot, back when it was ok for pilots to be drunk all the time. He couldn’t afford a babysitter so he took her with him on flights. After the crew went home they would sleep on the plane. One time they were so poor, they actually used the seat cushions as sandwiches. Gross!
Most pilots make enough money to provide for their families, but not my grandfather. He even sold coke on the side, but he just couldn’t make ends meet. When she was 12 my mom moved out of the bathroom. She got a job as a flight attendant, and she got her own apartment. She even sold tupperware on the side. She got knocked up after a tupperware party by a giant bowl.
I never met my father. He died in a microwave oven when I was three. I am so glad I got my mother’s good looks.
I live in a tree. I like to take long golf swings from the top of the tree. I climb up there and I take off like five leaves every time I swing, and then I feel bad so I cook the leaves and eat them. Then I throw my golf club away because I feel like I can’t help myself when it is around. I always dig the golf club up and swing at the leaves again. I love doing it, and I wish I didn’t feel so bad about it.
Last week my uncle wrote an article for the New York Times. He called me on my cell phone, and told me they were hiring in the mail room. I told him I was in an "I hate men phase,” and didn't want the job. He laughed because he thought I was stupid. He’s an asshole with two kids, and two ex-wives. Who is he to judge me?
I make my living by pretending to be an activist. I sit in this tree and every two hours I have to hug it. This jerk who works as the head activist is always hanging around trying to climb my hair and get into the tree with me. I haven’t cut my hair in four years. I am working on a pair of wings, so I can get the fuck out of this tree. The guy hits me with a sugar cane if I try to leave. I am addicted to being a slave. I just love it.
When the guy takes naps I pee in a coffee tin, and dribble it down the tree. Some of it lands on him, and it makes me laugh. One time he caught me peeing in the can, and he told me to send it down on the rope-mailbox. I did, and he poured it all on his head. He then shit his pants. He just stood there pinching his face, until he smiled, and then he walked around the tree like four times. What the fuck is wrong with me, hanging out in a tree, a slave to a guy like this? I needed better role models as a child.
