Her voice is husky form the faithful pack a week habit she keeps. It sounds okay when she sings, but it makes for great radio. She gets the deliverymen who stick around and listen after the morning drive time talk show all hot and bothered. One or two have called to tell her so. The husky rasp seems to have no effect on the one person she wants it to affect. Of course it's a guy. When isn't it? His name's Vince, but he inroduces himself as Vinny. He does the morning drive time talk show, interspersed with random selections of ska (he used to play in a ridiculously named ska outfit) and Tom Waits.

She forgets how they met, he may have been doing time in the news room or production studio, or he may have already secured the morning drive time slot. It doesn't really matter to her now. She remembers in the early stages of their vague aquaintanceship running into him at one of her first house parties. She knew no-one and really just wanted to know where they were stashing the vodka. Hell, she was so socially terrified she would have had a beer. She ended up having both. The alcohol hit her system faster than she expected and found herself wandering around from room to room, talking to everyone in them. She doesn't remember what exactly happened when they first started talking, but she remembers it was a generally friendly conversation.

Seven lines of coke later,
the house catches fire.
Similar to Simila's sense of snow,
another hideous car wreck

The house catches fire
due to circumstances beyond the control of heroin.
Another hideous car wreck
smoking herbs like saffron.

Due to circumstances beyond the control of heroin
nothing hurts like it used to.
Smoking herbs like Saffron
apathy grows increasingly comfortable.

Nothing hurts like it used to
.Nothing starts to feel good
Apathy grows increasingly comfortable
As we suffocate under the stench of Magnolia

Nothing starts to feel good
Shots of imaginary whiskey don't do it anymore
As we suffocate under the stench of Magnolia
I suddenly wish I were dead.

Shots of imaginary whiskey don't do it anymore
seven lines of coke later
I suddenly wish I were dead
Similar to Simila's sense of snow.

When I came home, my mother was sobbing in a darkened room listening to Prince. She still wore the gym shorts and U2 PopMart tour t-shirt from the night before. I knew better than to ask her what was wrong. I could smell it. An overacheiving white russian at her fingertips which were dangling from the side of the silver satellite chair.

"Mitchy, that you?" her usually loud, throaty voice a almost whiny whisper.

"Yeah, mom."

"Where's your father?"Mother had a way of hissing her s sounds when she was drunk that I could never replicate in any medium. She had a way of finding excessive numbers of s sounded words when she was drunk

"I dunno, I just came in."

"How was the bar? Good crowd?"

"There was no gig. There's no more band. Bass player quit."

"Was that Seth?"

"Yeah"

"Mmmm. I liked Seth. Why'd he quit?"

"Decided he'd rather play bass in a They Might Be Giants cover band."

"Better than an a capella death metal band."

I winced and hoped it would come accross as a smile in the dark room.

"What time is it?"

I glanced at the blacklit grandfather clock in the hallway, just past my mother's slumped ragdoll body. "Quarter to one."

"Your homework done?"

"I've got sixty four pages to read in On The Road. I was just going to get up super early and finish those, though."

"I'd offer you some of my speed, but you're still way too young for that shit. Too handsome."

"Thanks, mom" I continued up the stairs. Halfway up, my conscience got the best of me I came back down and I covered her with one of the throws on the couch.

"Mitch?"

"Yeah, mom?"

"Thanks for making sure my snatch wasn't showing."

"Anytime, mom."