Conveyance

Hmmmm...How to explain. This is gonna be hard. It's like, like...God, this is tough. The words, they just don't mean what I want them to mean. Like, let's say there's a dolphin, who really really likes graham crackers...no, wait. I mean, let's take your mom. Just an example, no insult intended. Well, it's kinda like your mom, with all her sundresses and sunglasses and sunroofs and shit. Almost like that, I guess. More like a skylight that some bluejay has shat on.

Still, you're not getting it, and that's not your fault, because I'm not getting it right. Let's say a train is going in two directions at once, like North-East, but the wind is only going up. It's like that, moreso than your mom. But then again, have you ever gotten a ticket for not turning on your headlights, even though it's clearly still dusk, and there is still light, and you can see the pollution turn red on the horizon? And then, you remember the spare pack of Sunny Doodles in your glove compartment. That's the feeling.

OK, enough of this nonsense. I have it, conveyed to perfection: You are playing four-square with the man who will be your husband. His mom whistles, a command, but he stays a silent moment longer, to peg you in the head with that beautiful, red, rubber ball. Your teeth clack and you bite your tongue, and when you get home, your mom thinks you stole her favorite lipstick. The tuna tastes like pennies that night, and you never fall asleep again, until you touch down on your wedding bed.

You still don't get it, do you?

That's what I thought.