[???: Oh sir Culture…Is this your end? Is this how we part? Is this your permit to Death?]
"I don't need your permission."
The massive piece of judgment swung in a divine arc towards my face.
"I'm not your son."
And it landed right above my head. To be exact, it struck the ground, missing my scalp by inches.
"..." My mom, she had landed her attack, but for some reason, she'd decided to spare me.
As my amazing hair half covered both my orbits, I saw her resting her body weight on her weapon, and looking into my eyes.
The wind blew and her long hair too swayed, casting a melancholic shadow over her forehead and nose. The familial blues made me reminisce about my previous hectic scooter pizza mondays. As her mask stretched with her parting lips I was reminded of the same lips I saw on that woman closing her door on my face while I was on her 30 min pizza spontaneous vaginal del, sorry, delivery.
