Let me tell you about my mother...

Do you know my mother? No? Well...my mother works at a bank, has a tramp stamp, aspires to be a "Gentleman Farmer," and once had a meltdown because she believes "clothing should not actually touch [her] skin." She also will curb stomp you if you throw away a sliver of paper. That shit is recyclable, yo. In other words, she's insane. Or fantastic. Take your pick.

Anyway, recently she got a mole removed on the top of her thigh, and--apparently--the stitches are hyper-sensitive right now. The other day I was just sitting on the couch engaged in some stressful form of homework, blissfully unaware of the coming assault to all my senses, when my mother walks past the doorway. She stops and turns to face me. She is wearing short Soffe shorts and a stolen pair of my over-the-knee volleyball socks. If one mixed all the colors of each garment together it would prolly be the approximate shade that causes one's eyes to explode. I look up and she waves her hand across her body as if she needs to direct my attention toward her outfit. "Get at me," she says. And then she walks away. In the words of Miranda Presley, "That's all."