Dear Mom…

Lounge Act, Frances Farmer

Dear Mom,

After a long day of work I love nothing more than sitting outside of my apartment and smoking a joint, and on occasion having a beer. I went to my stash box and grabbed about 2 grams of dope. I said to myself, “I’ll roll one for now and one for later”. As I started to roll the joints I decided a beer would be just the thing to hit the spot. “Just one”, I kept saying to myself, “It would be dumb to get drunk at 6 in the morning”. I proceded to sit myself down on my balcony and light my one joint with my one beer. Now, I don’t know what exactly came over me, but I felt at peace. Complete inner peace. I couldn’t just let this stop. I finished my joint, sipped the last of my beer, and headed in to debate whether or not to continue this feeling of euphoria. I realized the debate had ended half way through the second joint and at about the fourth beer. The munchies had set in quite nicely so I decided it was time for some early-morning dinner. I sauntered into the kitchen with thoughts of a feast in my head. I gorged. A can of soup, box of crackers, 3 Pogos, 2 eggs, and two litres of Fruitopia fell in my merciless plundering of the fridge. Along the way three more dead soldiers were laid to rest. It was rolling on ten o’clock and I realized I still had to work in the evening, so I packed it in. I woke up around 8:30 and surveyed the damage. In total I went through 10 beers and about a quarter of dope, all just because I wanted to. Now I woke up in my bed – all my beer was gone, next to an empty baggie, and now I had to go fucking grocery shopping.

The Saviour

Dear everyone,

To be honest, I can’t really write a dear mom letter because I don’t have anything to say to my mom. I’m comfortable talking to her about my drinking habits, but she gets uncomfortable around the subject of sex, so I generally just avoid the topic. I feel more of a need to confess my feelings about debauchery to everyone else; I want the world at large to know the things that I struggle with every time I’m invited to a party. I want people to understand why I don’t know anything about drugs or why I’ve never heard of 151.

I’m sure some of you grew up like I did, certain that you would go to hell if you partook in various activities of a sinful nature. But what was the definition of sin that you grew up with? Was television a sure ticket to nowhereland? How about wearing pants (as a female, that is)? What about having short hair, or wearing makeup or jewelry?

As someone who recently shaved her head, wears a necklace every time she remembers, and certainly enjoys the occasional TV show, I’d have to say that I’ve come a long way. But I got drunk for the first time less than a year ago. How many 20-year-olds can say that? I’ve considered myself an atheist since before I started drinking, but I still have a hard time letting go of the past. I may not be going to hell, but all I have to do is think about my family history of alcoholism to realize why my parents might have chosen to try to instill certain values in me.

I have other reasons for being “bad at substances”: a dislike for jumping into things; a general wariness around things that might damage my brain; so many long-term responsibilities that I care about more than one evening of pleasure. However, the main reason that I so often choose to abstain is fear. Fear that I might not enjoy it; fear that I might get sick; fear that I’ll do something stupid.

I’m going to close this letter by saying that I’m desperately trying to get over that fear. My goal is to end up much more comfortable when a joint is passed around, either by being more secure in my reasons for saying no, or just finally being able to enjoy the intoxication. So please be patient with me. Just because I go weeks without drinking or engaging in typical debauchery doesn’t make me totally straight edge. I’m still working on breaking out of the shell that held me for so many years.

Soberly yours,

Dear Mom:

It’s been years since we’ve filled your house with hundreds of drunken, under-age kids trying their best not to smash anything. I’ll bet you’re still finding the odd whiskey bottle around even now. Anyhow, thanks. Thanks for fending off the cops. Thanks for understanding that if it was going to happen, our house was a safe place for it (whatever it might be).

One confession, though. All that stuff you think that I did? Well, I did it. But I didn’t do it nearly as much as you assumed. Those times you made fun of me, when I came home fucked up on mushrooms? Those were the only times. Those times I was out all night? Half the time, I was looking at the stars. All those girls you thought I slept with? Most of them were just friends staying the night. It’ll always make me laugh that you think I’ve lived a much more debauched life than I actually have.

Thanks for the vote of confidence.
Your Son

Dear Mom,
Don’t buy WD-40 for my squeaky bed frame – it’ll never get less squeaky. It’s been that way since I started masturbating in grade three. LOVE YOU!

Dear Mom,

Just had the funniest thing happen. I got a little bored on Tuesday night, so I decided to cruise the net for a random fuck. You remember Tuesday, right? When I took the car? Yeah, I never did meet Mel for Tim Horton’s.

Instead I used your GPS to find the house of a complete stranger. A stranger to me, but apparently not such a stranger to you; he’s your co-worker. Now two people at your work have seen me naked!

I promise next time I’ll at least fill up the tank after.

Love you Mom,

Dear Mom,

I have sex, I do drugs and yes, I listen to rock ‘n roll (although usually it’s of the alternative or folk-rock genre, as opposed to the really sinful heavy stuff). This will probably all come as a surprise to you, given that you and dad never really engaged in any of these rebellious and secular activities. I think my decline into the seedy underbelly of youth began in tenth grade on New Year’s Eve, or the first night that I got completely trashed with my friends. It was a foggy, but thankfully vomit-free, event. The descent continued the next week when you happily sent me off to a youth group slumber party at church. I snuck out with the wrong crowd and tried pot for the very first time (hallelujah). You know all those times I went to play board games and watch movies at friend’s houses and then came home completely exhausted the next day? Yeah, those were your run-of-the-mill high school parties. When I say I don’t want to stop by for dinner on Friday night, don’t take it personally, but I’d just rather go out drinking with my friends.

This is probably all rather shocking to you, and before you loseWeight Exercise it completely and think about how awful your dear daughter has turned out, please take a deep breath and think about it. I’m a good person, and I’m hardly reckless in my activities. When I have sex it’s mutually consensual and always safe. I don’t take drinks from strangers or leave my beer unattended. I (almost) always practice moderation when engaging in these so-called “questionable activities”. Maybe this wasn’t what you had in mind for me, but I’m happy. I’m aware that my actions have consequences, and I’ve done my best to make sure that the consequences are positive ones.

Honestly, I think letting loose and drinking and smoking pot once in a while has contributed to my sanity and overall well-being. Or maybe that’s just me trying to justify my actions. In any case, this is what I do on weekends and even (gasp) sometimes on school nights, and look at me! I turned out ok! So mom, in conclusion, I hope you can accept this part of my life as something that you can’t change, and honestly, I hope it doesn’t cause you too much grief. I’m not telling you this to worry you, but to be open and honest about who I am and what I believe in. Of course, sex drugs and rock ‘n roll isn’t everything I have become; it’s just the evening and weekend version. Please take some time to digest all of this, and prepare yourself for my next letter: Why I Don’t Believe in Your God and Perhaps Never Did in the First Place.

See on Sunday night for dinner. Expect me to be hungover.

Your daughter

Dear mom,

Thanks a lot for sending the care package and especially that picture of the girls and me from high school. It reminds me of my sweet 16 bash and all the good times I had partying at the all-ages clubs and school dances. By the way, do you remember when you asked me why you never saw my underwear in the laundry, and I answered “I just wash it all by hand”? The truth is mom, I almost never wore underwear (still don’t) and there’s a good reason too. How else were we supposed to give the guys easy access on the dance floor? Getting fingered at the all ages club was our weekly ritual: whoever scored the oldest hot guy had bragging rights until the next party!

And when you asked me jokingly yesterday “So, honey how many guys have you kissed?” I wanted to laugh out loud because I lost count ages ago. I guess if I could figure out how many blowjobs I’ve given then we could ballpark it, since the two numbers go hand in hand. What can I say? You taught me to be giving and concerned with the well being of others and I’ve been putting a lot of time and energy into doing just that.

See you at church next weekend.
Your loving daughter