alterego's profile

YOU SAY IT’S WRONG FOR ME TO WANT TO ADD TO WHOM I AM BUT I CAN SEE RIGHT THROUGH YOUR WORDS YOUR WORDS AREN’T WORTH A DAMN WHAT IS THIS LIFE YOU FEEL YOU NEED TO LIVE WITH ME, IT’S SUCH A SCAM PRETEND YOU WANT THESE THINGS FOR US BUT YOU REALLY DON’T YOU THINK I CANNOT SEE SO HERE YOU STAND AND SAY YOU WANT THINGS TO REMAIN THE SAME THAT CHANGE IS NOT FOR US BUT WHAT ABOUT THE OTHER SIDE OF YOU THAT YOU WON’T CLAIM WHY DO YOU INSIST THAT WE FIT THE MOLD CAST BY THOSE GONE BEFORE THAT WE MUST...

Mum and I are on our way back home after our little kick-off shopping trip at Bradlees. Bradlees is the perfect store for a quick jaunt because you can pick up a few trendy little clothing items for the season on the cheap while stocking up on tampons, lipstick, wrapping paper, floatation devices, and any other weird little thing one may need. I try not to think about the white tennis sneakers, kakhi shorts and navy blue polo shirt in the bag. That little ensemble will only be seen on me when...

“Come in Sam” I hear my mother say, in response to Sam’s light rap on the worn screen door, which is badly in need of a new coat of paint and some new tape to re-cover the small holes that had formed. My mother is definitely considered to be an attractive woman, even now in her late forties. She also has a somewhat distant chill about her though, sort of an “I will be pleasant to you but don’t you dare mess with me” kind of aura. Men adore her, women hold her at a distance and kids find her t...

I wrestle with the yard rake as I try to pull it through the doors of the shed. The “little house”, as the shed is known, functions as the overflow storage area for all of the cottage’s miscellaneous items during the winter. Our sandy yard is currently littered with pails, shovels, lawn chairs, old paint cans, a par-inflated rubber boat, rugs, a croquet set, a few golf clubs, fishing poles and tackle boxes – a true menagerie of junk that has no where else to hide from the winter’s elements. I...

I consider the trunk of the black 1981 Cadillac Sedan deVille with skepticism. The trunk has been packed to the hilt, but I still try to squeeze in some more. According to tradition, the trunk must be piled to full capacity, and then, and only then, may I top it off with the smoothly folded stack of beach towels, still warm from the dryer. As the automatic trunk latch takes hold and compresses the air right out of those towels ensuring their safe transport to Cape Cod, I smile triumphantly at...