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My Mother Died On A Sunday / I Wish I Were Bulimic By Tim Boisvert My mother died on a Sunday. Don’t ask me how, because I don’t know. Dad said he’d tell me the gory details if I wanted to know, but I continue to object. As far as I’m concerned, the mini-van she was driving gracefully slid off of the road and passed her instantly into the hands of heaven. It’s good that she died on a Sunday, though, rather than a Friday or a Saturday. I was still in my church clothes at the time, and as a result I didn’t have to change for the funeral. The funeral wasn’t until Thursday, but for some reason I don’t recall anything between Monday and Wednesday. I wish I were bulimic. Skin and bones would be better for me than the fat and flab and sucking in of my stomach, and the looks of pity when I go to a restaurant. You pity me? Why would I be pitied? I don’t pity the smoker, whose inhaling takes him closer to death than my taco takes me. Why not pity the smoker? Why not become a bulimic? Why not stand in front of a mirror and turn and check my profile, the turn again and check it from another angle. It works for girls, and guys love girls. It should work the same for guys. Eat, puke, smile... instant love, right? Or maybe I’ll choose anorexia; all the benefits without the stomach-ache! And I wish I could cuss and get away with it. Every time the word "damn" slips out of my mouth, my peers turn into my mother and give me a look. I’m twenty-five years old already. My life is half-over, if indeed I do succumb to the heart problems so common among the men of my ancestry. If I want to say "damn" then I’m going to say "damn," damnit. I liberated myself from my parents’ stressful rule, why can’t I liberate myself from their values? Everywhere I go, every friend I stand in front of, my mother looks at me and slowly shakes her head. "Poor boy," she probably says. "Where did I go wrong?" My boss tells me that she could be my mother. Every week. I’ve stopped asking for a raise and instead I now regularly ask for more "allowance." Anorexia would do me well, I think. The pretty girls would knock on my door, wouldn’t they? And they’d want to see me, not my roommates. I could do it the easy way, watch my calories and ride my bike, but stopping eating altogether would save me both time and money. Or I could do what Kevin did to lose weight, and get testicular cancer. He lost how many dozen pounds in a matter of months? Right down the drain, he looked like a skeleton. The chemo made him throw up like a bulimic. His skin-tones paled and he got to stay home from school every day. True, he won’t be able to have kids, but at least he got a woman out of it. Cancer wouldn’t work for me, though. I don’t have medical insurance. I don’t know why I’m writing this. I should repress these feelings, right? I shouldn’t write if doing so pushes me to wipe the tears away from my eyes. Negativity leads to suicide, doesn’t it? Well, that’s definitely not an option, that’s for sure. I’d rather live to complain about my problems than to end my life before my problems reach their full maturity. No, this is my Prozac. This is my daily pill. This is my whore. This is what you get for asking me to tell you how I really feel. This is what you get for looking me in the eyes. Sorry, I guess. Back to Tim's Short Stories |