Double Trouble (A Short Story).

The breasts control my life. They control my father who in turn controls the household. They have come into my life and destroyed all sanity. I hate them. I detest them. I loathe every cup size. Every corner I turn they are there; she is there, arching her back as she struts around. The largest sweater couldn’t lessen the power they have, or even begin to cover the outstretched skin. Fake or real, nobody knows. Whatever they are I wish they would leave and take her with them. Her name is Sundee, pronounced just how it’s spelled, although I secretly refer to her as Peggy from Married with Children. The only difference being that Sundee is shorter, wider and lacks even a hint of sex appeal. She is my father’s new girlfriend and possibly wife number five. He met her on a trip to Reno and decided the trailer trash, breast obsessed ex-stripper, who couldn’t even get passed the eighth grade moron, deserved a place in our home. There she is again. An unemployed drain on the economy, sprawled out on the couch with a sleeping bag over her head.

I’m happy something is covering her drug-abused face, and the breasts. It’s Wednesday at about one o’clock in the afternoon and she’s sleeping. This is typical for her and the breasts; apparently they need a lot of rest. In front of the couch is an expensive wicker coffee table, but you wouldn’t know it by its layer of soiled dishes. Next to the soiled dishes are drinking glasses with a milk-stained residue that add delightfully to the atmosphere of melancholy.These are her soiled dishes. These are her drinking glasses with a milk-stained residue. They will sit there until somebody else picks them up. On the television is a depressing soap opera. I decide to turn it off.

I look for the remote and notice it is trapped between her and the couch. I dare not reach for it because if I wake her, I will have to deal with her, and the breasts. Again I think of how I wish they would leave. I walk up and turn off the T.V. to later wish I hadn’t. As I take notice of her movement, she suddenly rises from her lazy position in society. I don’t turn around because maybe, just maybe if I keep doing what I was doing and walk away she’ll let me be. Then in an irritated and hoarse voice she blows, “I was watching that!” At first I was confused. If she was sleeping how could she be watching the television? Then I realized it was the breasts. They were watching the television. I ignore her phlegm filled shouts of rage and leave the room.