Turned off - email submission

My mommy turned me off to lesbianism. My alcoholic deadbeat dad turned me off to men.

Overdose

Once I almost died of drug overdose. Heroine. I stopped breathing. Then the paramedics came. They brought me back. The next day I went to a party. I thought about the fact that I miight have died the night before. It was strange, contuining to exist, in light of the fact that my continued existence hung on a very thin thread. I almost died, but I didn't.

Wanted

My fiance is wanted in Kentucky.

Kill, kill, kill, kill

My dad don't know that I'm gonna kill, kill, I'm gonna kil and kill, kill, kill, kill, super-kill, mega-murder superkill with a gun and all the brains are gonna be killed super brains everywhere, megacorpse, supernova explosion death murde

Skinny Dipping

I cut school and went skinny-dipping in the strip mine lakes with the seniors one spring day when I was a Freshman in High School. 1) No cutting school, 2) no swimming in the strip mine lakes, 3) no getting into cars with older boys, 4) (well, do I have to mention no taking your clothes off!)

ATM card

My dad doesn't know, but I used to take his ATM card, sometimes to buy him groceries and smokes, sometimes just to take it, but either way I'd get extra bit for myself. $20, 40... sometimes more. It was all well spent though, promise, he knew I drank and smoked too, and had an affection for shoes and clothing.

My Parents Don't Know About the House Party I Threw This One Time - email submission

I was always a good girl. I listened, did what I was told and didn't really rebel. But in April '94, while my parents went on a vacation, I found my one chance to really do something crazy. My cousin and I --together-- organized a HUGE House Party. We planned to have it in the vacant garage apartment of my parents' house. No furniture, no worries. Right? Wrong. The party grew to massive proportions. Fights over Zima ensued. Five dollars a cup, turned into, "Shut-the-hell-up you asshole, you aren't getting money from me to drink here." Then the [my] college basketball team showed up. Ok, not the whole team, but eight of them. Eight very tall black men, all piled into the back bedroom of this garage apartment. It was a scene. I don't think I'll ever forget it.

The party eventually died down. The Zima fight was all but forgotten. Money was made. The basketball team eighty-sixed the back bedroom. And I was left to clean up. Empty bottles, bottles with cigarette butts, puke in the corner, ashes on the counter, piss in the shower. Oh it was a delight. The reward came when I went down to the house and five of my best friends, at the time, were rolling some joints. I plopped down, tired but triumphant, and smoked a whole one. By myself. No help.

I woke up, on the couch, to my friend cleaning up. She looked refreshed and happy. Little did I know, she had gotten laid in my bedroom. The pig! I guess she felt I deserved some relief so she started to clean. Not five minutes after I splashed water on my face and grabbed a can of coke, I hear that familiar voice calling me from the back yard. I look out and see my grandmother walking towards the screen door, in slooooowwwwww mooootion. It all would have been fine, the house was virtually spotless, save that one ashtray with all the roaches! Like a drug sniffing canine, she spotted it instantly.

"What's that?"

"Oh Gramma, that's just some cigarette butts."

"You smoking?"

"Gramma, don't tell Mom and Dad, please! Just a couple cigarettes. I won't do it again."

"Ok, I won't tell them!"

Thank God she didn't know they were marijauna butts and thank God she didn't make the surprise visit a NIGHT visit.

Come to think of it, I don't even remember what I bought with all the money I made from the "$5.00 a Cup." It was probably cheeseburgers. A pot-taker always needs cheeseburgers!