Heterochromatic.
that night when we went out drinking past midnight, with blue plaid flannel soaked through with booze and liquid lsd, with flimsy white cotton t shirts stained with soil and sweat, I never once said I wasn’t okay.
My eyes and lips were black and blue, much like the night sky that enveloped me to the point of nonbeing. The moon wasn’t out and the stars couldn’t be seen, not even with the binoculars that my real mom gave me for my sixth birthday, with a note scribbled in drippy black ink. I don’t know whether she used a fountain pen or a gel ink pen, but she definitely didn’t use the roller ball pen that was my favorite, from my dad who wasn’t my dad. I cursed at her inwardly when I received the note, stop pretending to be Dumbledore, mom, I don’t even know you. And how stupid are you to think you can see stars with binoculars, they’re not telescopes.
I repeat.
Binoculars are not telescopes.
I didn’t use them much, but I used them to hide my eyes from girls who I didn’t want to fuck but who wanted to fuck me and who called me pretty boy and fawned over me just because I modeled for gap kids. I didn’t know who my real dad was or who I inherited my blue gray greenish eyes that definitely weren’t heterochromatic no matter what the girls said. Don’t render me a concept, I might be conceptual but I’m not a concept, so fuck off, I said to all the girls who want to fuck me despite my being all of eleven years old and then some. I may be only eleven, but already I’m a lady killer, smirked my dad as he drank can after can of cheap german beer that he probably shoplifted from the local brewery.
Fuck off, dad, as I gave him the middle finger as I stomp off to hang with my friends from the neighborhood, to shoplift from the local pharmacy.
We ruled the neighborhood. We were kings coasting the conceptual sidewalks with our scooters and skateboards and roller skates that I might have stolen from that big high school kid who thought he was something and who used his girth and height and teenage gang to punch me in the face multiple times when I was all alone hunting for grasshoppers in the rain.
They punched me in my pretty face and I just took it like a man.
And then my manhood withered when my real mom decided to show up in all her poncho-ed glory and mountainous backpack. Swinging her backpack at them like an old Asian woman with a vendetta, she saved her Kungfu moves for last, plummeting them with tiger fists and dragon claws until they ceased and desisted and fled for their pathetic lives.
How cool was she?
not cool at all
(Pregnant bitch).
I’m more fire and brimstone than rain and bubbles, and I prefer it this way. So that night when my girlfriend dumped me after we made frenzied, frantic love in the trunk of my van that had more mileage than my mom’s credit card debt, I didn’t cry.
I took it like a man.
Shedding zero tears, I got my friends and we trashed my (now) ex-girlfriend’s sugar daddy’s Porsche by plummeting it with dog feces and kitty litter, combined with some expired eggs. I love me some chemical chaos, and the lingering smell of sulfur and poop now forever remembered by my olfactory receptors was one of the best heterogenous mixtures I’ve ever made with my handy lab equipment.
Afterwards, my friends and I smoked some crystal meth in the basement of the old whiskered janitor of my school, who was one of my best adult friends. And who wasn’t a perv, despite my use of the word adult as an adjective, and despite the rumors of the gossipy soccer moms of the PTA that never did a thing besides hold the occasional bake sale.
Their cupcakes sucked ass, compared to my mom’s.
My mom thought she could make it as a career woman despite being an overgrown college student who’s still trying to make money even when money seeps out of her many invisible wounds like pus from a pimple. And boy does she have many invisible wounds.
Sometimes I think my mom’s mixed like me. I’m not casting shade on homogenous people like the nerdy Asians who sit together at lunch, nor am I discriminating against half of my own race. Heterochromatia and heterogeneity are completely overrated, I tell my mom over the phone, silently wishing she would tell me she was half Asian like me.
At first I thought she hung up on me because all I heard was a stubborn silence.
Some white noise filled the air and I was about to hang up, when she said in a low voice,
“You’re heterochromatic, Ken.”
Then she hanged up the phone, before I could say anything in response to her rude comment about my eyes.
And we never talked on the phone again since.
I don’t tell my friends or anyone I know that I have an Asian mom, even when they joke around about my small eyes and my tiny ski sloped nose and my black hair and my heart shaped face and my snow white skin. Talk about my heart shaped face again, and I’ll kill you, I jokingly (not) said to my friends.
My friends are douches more than they are nice, but that’s why I hang out with them because I never once made the pretentious assertion that I am nice. Because I’m not. I’m not nice to girls, I’m not nice to adults, and I’m definitely not nice to my mom who left me before I even weaned off the milk bottle.
My dad said that she left me because she was too poor to afford a crib. Cribs aren’t that expensive, Mom. How poor are you?
Again, I repeat.
How poor ARE YOU?
Very poor, Mom, because you don’t have me.
:P
Someday, I’m going to marry a girl who’s just like my Mom. Not. I’m going to marry a hot blonde bombshell who’s Miss USA, pageant queen of the century, with thicc thighs and curvaceous bum, and boobs the size of the erection in my adult sized pants. And we’re going to have hot sinful sex every day, not excluding in the shower.
Mom, you’re not invited to our shower sex. Not only did you give up your privilege of bathing me in the tub when I was only 1 year old and seeing my weenie every night and day, you also are too Christian (not) to even have shower sex anymore.
What are you going to do, Mom, quit your job to get with your ex-boyfriend who drives a truck to work every day?
EFF YOU MOM. STOP BEING SO POOR AND GET A HIGH PAYING JOB ALREADY.
Get a job.
Mom.
Get. A. Job.
Period.
When I’m an adult, I’m going to be a hot shot surgeon who wields the scalpel with the precision of an ex-serial killer. Mom abandoned her dreams of being a surgeon a long time ago, despite her bragging that she’s legacy all the time.
I’ll carry the legacy, Mom.
I’ll carry it.
One day, I’m going to see my mom on my wedding day, and I know she’s going to be crying so much that her eye make up will smear and make her look like a raccoon.
And she’ll say,
I’m proud of you, Ken.
For making it this far to my wedding day.
-
For this British boy Ken who I met on the airplane one time.
