There was this one time I went to visit my mom. We were out in the garden, just trimming some of her flowers. She was telling me this story of when we were younger and in the Sorority.
We were never in college together and I am 100% sure she was never in a sorority. But this was her story today.
So we were in the Sorority and she was telling me how she was running for President and the runner up was such a sore loser. Mom said something along the lines of
“…Mags marched up to me and smiled wide for all the cameras. Our other sisters were documenting the moment, because you know its a big deal. I was very well liked by all the girls, and the guys but we won’t get into that.” she feigned modesty. “That Margie girl was a real wicked thing. She gave me hug and whispered ‘I just love your lipstick, Its the perfect shade of whore red.’ Oh, she was just a jealous green giant. If I were her, I’d have been jealous too you know!”
“Mom what was her name?” I asked for clarification.
“That Meanie Margie, I’d never forget that poor soul.” She said with certainty.
I stopped my trimming, a horrified, astonished grin creeped on to my face. I touched my mom’s arm, and right as I was about to say “MOM! MY NAME IS MARGIE!” I remembered this was her story, and at least in some twisted way she remembered my name today.
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