I can't look my mother in the eyes any more. She seems so triumphant in her reproaches, like she doesn't know that we are all made of the same ephemeral sperm and egg. It's all so meaningless. I feel like a sperm, or even worse, a red blood cell, wandering aimlessly in an infinite stream... alone... unaware of my goal... unable to comprehend that my goal is simply survival. To go on another day, and fight my disease, and feed myself, and work, work, work for nothing but dimes. I try to fight it, but I am pushed along in the stream, and I can't look at anyone, not even my own mother, because none of them remember what it was like to be human. Some of them never knew that they were human. All they know now is that they are dying, and in such a rush to get there.

I'm dying, but I'm in no rush. I want to remember what it was like to feel the worms eat my brain. I want to remember what it was like to fall like Newtons apple, from the tree of life. I want to watch others rush to their death, like they have the answers. I want to watch the worms eat their brain. Do they really all think they are going to heaven? Heaven is for the weak of mind anyways, perhaps they belong there. They live their lives without doubt, don't they ever look in the mirror? don't they ever take off their clothes? They are just blood in the veins of the city. Slaves. What is money anyways? Nobody has ever been able to answer that, and I doubt anyone ever will.

My mother visited today. I couldn't look at her, or speak to her. She reproached me. "I am your mother you ungrateful bastard," I fell as though she is not my mother, but some woman that I've never known, or wanted to know. In any case, she never wanted to know me either, she expects her children to be a trophy of her greatness, so it gives me a sick satisfaction that I wound up here... in the tenderlon... with the creeps.

She comments that my apartment is ugly, but I know it is more beautiful than she is, if only because it is not where she sleeps. I often wondered if I would be indifferent to her death, like Camus' Outsider... No, I won't be indifferent, but I may be relieved. I cannot spend ten minutes alone with her. She tries to tell me a funny anecdote. She thinks I will laugh. It is about my father. How she took him to a ballgame the day before father's day, and he said I'm glad my gift was cheap, because it comes out of my pocket anyways; to which she replied that he wasn't in the clear yet, she would getting him a new grill the following day. I asked her if the grill was for her or my father. I know who it is for. She is the most selfish person I know. I can't believe I came from that. It makes me sick to imagine that she is my mother. I have always had a nagging feeling that it isn't true... That somehow, I had a real mother somewhere, who sang me lullabyes, until I was stollen from her arms. It is as if I can even remember the tune, somewhere in the back of my mind.

I open the window and smoke a cigarette. She reminds me that they will kill me. I murmur to myself that I wish they would. She annoys me. I want to blow smoke in her face; which is hardly a face, but more like something from hell. Even her hair is red like a demon. I remember when my father died. I felt that she killed him, slowly and over many years. A life with her would kill anyone. She is more fatal than my cigarettes. I take a quick glimpse at her face, but I don't see a soul behind her eyes. I attempt to speak, but she isn't listening. She is going through my drawers now. She will find something she doesn't like, but what do I care if she finds out the truth now. It wouldn't matter now anyways, there is nothing she can do. I have already outlived myself. My spirit is gone. I could care less, and soon my soul will be more empty the even hers. For in her the still rests and disgusting force, which makes me want to scream in horror. I want to blame everything that has gone wrong in my life on her, but I know that isn't true. I have nobody to blame but myself. That doesn't stop her from annoying me.

She gets up after thumbing through a draw. She suggests we go to dinner together. I make some excuse. The truth is I plan to drink away her prescence, until nothing is left but a pale outline of her obese frame. She looks at me with disappointment. It is the first human emotion I have ever seen in her face. It is too late for disappointment. The world can scorn me for not caring about mother, but what makes a mother? Is it enough to give birth to something? Is that all it takes? I have birthed thousands of shits, but I am not a mother...