Mom came for a visit

She is perpetually, Madame Butterfly.

I was to be up and ready for a bike ride by nine in the morning. However, as fate would have it, a friend came by filled with bitter tears. We toasted three bottles of wine and several joints to love lost. At some point around two in the morning, I said, "Dude, I just gotta get some sleep. I've got to ride over the Santa Sue Pass in the morning."

At six thirty I woke up still drunk, staggered to the can for a pee. "Shit. Shit. I'm fucked." I can still catch some sleep, get another hour in before I need to get up.

At eight-thirty Mother knocked, "Hello" in her tiny Butterfly voice."

"Yeah, I'm up." And I was, especially after jamming my toes into the foot of the bed. I was up then. "Fuck me, shit mother-fucker"

"Are you all right?"

"Oh, yeah. Friend came over and I got all fucked up on wine. I'll get it together and we'll go."
There was no fucking way I was going to get it together. I couldn't get the water together for a cup of tea. Couldn't get the pills ready and I had a drunken turd packed in that was about to blow. Fuck.

"Oh, Betty made a poop on the floor."

"Shit, I just cleaned the rug the other day."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Madame Butterfly has, "Oh, I'm sorry" down pat. It comes out as if she has a blade held to her gut ready to slash the life from her.

I"m getting the rug cleaner and paper towels when it is announced that Betty is also bleeding.

"Fuck."

Down on my knees, cleaning runny dog shit and blood while clenching my sphincter because the toilet lobster wants to slide out. Now I think I might hurl as well. Fuck.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Do you still want to go biking today?" It is Madame Butterfly's cry of pain. Like, if you want, you can tear my wings from me and I won't care.

"No, fuck no, I just need a cup of tea and let me read a bit of the paper."

"Take as long as you need."

Meanwhile, after a visit to the can, after finding some pills to down, Madame Butterfly has the bikes out, tires pumped and water bottles filled. It's going to be in the high fucking eighties. Perfect weather for a hangover from hell.

"How about if we go to Santa Monica?"

"Better, what if I just go up the climb on this side and you go on, I'll come back here and die."

"Are you sure? I don't want to leave you if you're not feeling well." The blade is out.

"No, you go on, I'll be alright." Yeah, just as soon as I can get the pounding to stop in my head and my booze burn on my sphincter healed.

Mother. everyone needs one, I had one but she died and now I have another.