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This Is About Pickles.

Dear Mom,

If you’re still residing as/in some sort of sense of existence, aside from in my heart and memories, I hope this gets to you. Just after The Day, THAT day, Dad began writing letters to you because it was how he was able to slowly adjust to your absence, his form of therapy if you will. Since he’s the type to shun any form of ACTUAL therapy with a real-life-in-person THERAPIST, my sisters and I thought this a wonderful idea. You’re probably aware that I journaled to you a bit, but it sort of defeated the purpose because journaling is meant to be private, amirite? So here I am, writing you directly-ish instead…

That said, I’m writing you here and now to call you out on your bullshit.

Remember how you used to tell me and my sisters that we couldn’t have any pickles before bedtime because they’d give us nightmares?

Yeah, LIE.

I realize I only have anecdotal evidence, but it’s something nonetheless that proves your supposed “truth” wrong:

As you know, I visited Amanda over the Labor Day weekend since I had Monday off and all. Anyway, last night, before bed, I took out a pickle from Amanda’s fridge and ate it. You know perfectly well that everyone on your side of the family enjoys/enjoyed the hell out of pickles. It’s probably the German part of your side of the family because that just makes sense. And if you must know, it was a Trader Joe’s cornichon, and it was wickedly sour and so good, my tastebuds couldn’t decide if they hated or loved me (in the end, they loved me, of course)

Oh, and did I have a nightmare? No. No, I did not. In fact, I think I may be able to disprove your “truth” altogether if I had one of those psychic Dennis Quaid characters from Dreamscape and could get him to do a little reconnaissance, infiltrating some other pickle-lovers’ dreams or something like that. If I’d one spying on one of my own dreams last night, he would’ve probably had to leave quickly because there may have been a little bit of Daniel Craig and some chocolate-brandied-cherry gateaux involved, and it wouldn’t have been any of the Dennis Quaid character’s damned business.

You’re a parent for pete’s sake, and I realize that all parents tend to dish out the bullshit to get their kids to stop with the whining and the pleading and the bargaining and the screaming. However, the pickle lie, the one you constantly established as “truth,” I must say, was going WAY too far.

Then again, I think you just wanted the pickles all to yourself before bedtime.

Much Love (but no forgiveness) At Any Rate,





In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Doubters Alert.”

3 thoughts on “This Is About Pickles.

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