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My mom is Bananas.
Mentally ill and in love with flavor.
Mcdonald's special flavored shakes fall from the sky into her open hand.
Shakes can give you the shakes.
Brain freeze is pure pain.
Like an icicyle straight to the forehead.
Bananas are best half rotten.
Much like my mother's mind.
She has ice water in her veins when it comes to her judgments of me.
Nothing is ever good enough.
Everything has errors.
Like a newly released poetry collection
With the fresh smell of newly printed ink.
20 percent of it is all errors.
She can't see the big picture.
The positives in life.
Only what is wrong with any given situation.
She doesn't understand plays on words or unique spellings.
She doesn't understand that not everything is black or white.
Life has a gray area in which many things fall.
She is the world's worst customer.
Picking at tiny stains only she can see on the fabric of coats at the thrift store.
Demanding a discount on anything she can.
Finding flaws that the naked eye cannot see with a microscope.
Picking at invisible chips on plates at restaurants and using that as an excuse to not tip the wait staff.
Seeing spots on silverware that are most likely from the dishwasher and claiming they are specs of food and the place is unsanitary and owes her a free meal or else she will call the better business bureau and complain.
I am embarrassed when she turns exorcist, head full circle spinning like that of a demonic creature on middle-aged women in the jewelry store because it cost her $23 for a watch battery.
These are the tortures that plague unhappy mentally ill women in America.
They find fault in everything and unleash their anger on strangers at any given moment.
Going bananas literally.
Black jelly beans are not heartburn medication and it is wrong to call the phone number on the bottle to complain about their awful licorice taste.
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