Now, whether or not you realize what a joyous! and happy! and yayicecream! occasion this is about to be does not matter to me, since I don't even know who you are or where you are, but I'll tell you now that I'm Natasha Ferrier and I'm in my living room. It may be creepy that you know this, which means it is extra creepy that I am the one telling you and therefore I am only creeping out myself, which means I'm really the one to blame, which means that if Jack the Ripper Junior shows up in my living room and makes my intestines into a yo-yo string, I will be remembered as a caring girl who always offered advice to people and who had very stretchy intestines. But that is not really what I want. What I want is for you to shut up and listen. Because I am about to write about my mother.
I cannot tell you everything, because 1) it would not be funny, 2) it would take 19 years, and 3) the last time I wrote about my mother, she threatened to sue me. And so I deleted the post. But today I found out that suing me is not even possible, since 1) I can write about whoever the fuck I want, 2) I'm not using her name, and 3) I'm broke as shit.
Once upon a time, on a sunny afternoon in May, there lived a little princess named Natasha. She was an innocent lass who was oh-so-happy, even though she was a bit jealous of the other princesses. She had never had a sevensome like Snow White, the only whore accepted by society. She lacked the mega-cleavage of Ariel, who was only a wimpy 16 years old. And she had never owned a pair of parachute pants, which Jasmine seemed to have an unlimited supply of. But Natasha had other qualities she was proud of. She would sing to the lambs when they were sad about becoming McNuggets when they grew up, and she who would give magical handjobs to all of the goats of the land when they couldn't find a mate, making all of the animals in the forest simply adore her. But one day, Natasha was sick of pleasuring goats. She wanted to talk to The Queen of the land, who she had not talked to in quite some time. She called, but again,even after 5 months of not talking and a year since she had seen her, there was no answer. So on this very sunny afternoon in May, little Princess Natasha decided to leave an enchanted voicemail on the cell phone of The Queen, hoping to put a spell on her so she would call back this time. The spell worked, but as it turned out, the spell...was actually...a curse.
You heard me. A CURSE.
(Cue the Twilight Zone theme.)
This curse was unlike any other, for instead of being put on someone else, little Princess Natasha had put it on herself.
"What is it."
"How are you?"
"Quit the nonsense."
"Fine, Natasha, if you want to start a fight, I'm hanging up. I don't have time for this."
"You don't have time to talk to me?"
"Natasha, what do you want."
"No. You can't call me and leave an emotional voicemail and then not tell me what is going on tell me what is going on or I am hanging up."
"Well, I just wanted to talk. You're my mom...I'm your daughter...I don't even know what's going on in your life..."
"I don't have time for this Natasha. I paid for your school books in the spring."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"I paid for your school books."
"What about it?"
"Fine, Natasha, I can see you just called to fight with me."
"I'm trying to just have a conversation with you."
"I don't have time for this."
And this, ladies and gentlemen, is when the curse kicked in, for little princess Natasha suddenly had a bad case of Tourette's.
"YOU'RE SUCH A FUCKING BITCH!"
And that is when The Queen hung up on her.
Okay, okay, so I get that maybe I should not have called my mother a bitch. If I had really, truly wanted her to stay on the phone, I probably should not have screamed "fuck you," since I did, in fact, have a lot more to say. There was, "go fuck yourself," "I hope a dog pisses on your favorite pair of shoes," and "By the way I have six children now and they want to meet Grandmother Bitch if you have the time." These are logical points, except for the six children bit, which is just a lie. Maybe I should not think such mean things. But maybe she should not have randomly thrown away every toy I owned when I was eight years old. I NEED THOSE TOYS. I LIKE TOYS. I PLAY WITH TOYS TO THIS DAY BECAUSE MY INNER CHILD IS MORE OF AN OUTER CHILD AND I WILL NEVER GROW UP. The mere fact that I do not think, but know that Michael J. Fox in Back to the Future is my soulmate proves that I have much maturing to do. Not that he's not. Because he is. Because if he wasn't, I wouldn't feel the urge to say this: Mikey Poo...I love you...
Ahem. Moving on.
Michael...seriously. Do me.
Ahem. I apologize. Back to the topic.
You may be thinking I am a spoiled brat who disrespects my parents and should get my ass spanked. Well, you're wrong. (All except for the spanking bit. I'd be okay with that. That and wearing diapers. I hear they're quite cushy...before they get mushy.) Before you start bein' a Judgey McFucker, you need to know one thing: there is a lot you don't know. And I'm not talking about the fact that I do not own one pair of socks.
Now that it has hit me that my mother probably won't speak to me for a couple more years, I've been devising ways to get her to call me back, because I am a devious mother fucker I am. All of these methods would be in voicemails. Every day, I will leave a different voicemail. Here is what I have come up with so far:
"Mom, I've been kidnapped. Please call back."
"Mom, a man just doused me with gasoline and is holding a match above my vagina. Please call back."
"Mom, I'm in jail for killing all the Kroger employees. Please call back."
"WAHHH! WAHHHH! Sorry Mom, that was my baby. Anyway, please call back."
"Mom, I stuck a pencil in my eyeball and it's still there. Please call back."
"Mom, I don't know where I am but I know I have a blindfold over my eyes. Please call back."
"Gurgle! MOM! Gurgle! Gurgle! HELP! Gurgle! Gurgle! PLEASE CALL BACK!"
"Ay bitch I have yo daughtuh and I'm gonna kill her. Please call back."
They're all pretty much the same, as you can see. As long as it has to do with me in danger, dying, or fucking up my life in one way or the other, it'll work. I will also be accepting any ideas from others, since I'm going to need about 730 different voicemails if I plan to leave one every day for 2 years.
Or, I could always go with the threat approach.
"Mom, if you don't call me back, I'm going to keep leaving voicemails for the next seven hundred and twenty nine days. Please call back."
"Mom, if you don't call me back, I'm going to blog about you."
Too late. MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
(But for you, Michael, I'll leave you a voicemail anytime, baby.)