Three Bad Babes (Pt 1&2)

I suffered through a sexual trauma as a child. It was mostly because of my sister. No, she didn’t molest me or anything. But she did something that was unforgivable, unfathomable, at least in our family.

She went to a party. As you might have guessed, it wasn’t just any party. All the cheerleaders were at the party. And as my father said over and over, those cheerleaders look like prostitutes. I will call them whores for short. No, I do not believe they performed sexual duties for legal tender. I just call them whores because we’re not supposed to call girls “sluts” anymore.

I was what some might call a “good girl.”  I thought my sister was a “good girl,” too. Actually my sister and I are twins. We were born at the same time. Yes, at exactly the same time. We often asked my mother who came out first, and she would always say, “The two of you came out at exactly the same instant. What a coincidence!”

(I know what you are imagining, and I would be lying if I said that was not a concern of mine too.  I won’t tell you why.  You think about it and get back to me.)

We were both exactly sixteen years and seven days old when this happened. She was invited to the party and I was not. I would be disingenuous if I did not intimate to you that this seems suspiciously like a “divide-and-conquer” scenario. If you take one of us out of the picture, the other is more liable to fall prey to cognitive distortion or even transitory psychosis. I am no psychologist; I am just telling you the truth.

I cannot tell you, at least not right now, exactly what happened at that party, but what transgressed there certainly shines a fly-speckled light upon the current situation with my daughter.  I believe the genetic anachronism that struck my sister that night may have leapt diagonally down the family tree to my beloved offspring.

Luckily, I may be catching it early on. My daughter is 11 months old. Over the course of her childhood, she can train her mind to keep her body from betraying her spirit. What am I talking about, you may ask? I suppose I am burying the lead, if I may speak in journalistic terms.

My infant daughter gyrates on all fours like that Miley Cyrus on crystal methamphetamines. With one of those terrible thongs on!  On Miley Cyrus, not my daughter.

Of course I blame it on my sister.  She demon-strated her innate inability to re-distribute her hormones in a proper manner.  She could have baked cookies or sucked on one of those very large lollipops; I believe they are called all-day suckers?  I am not sure.  I need to google that someday when I have several free minutes.

My daughter is a sweet girl, although lately an odd fear has washed over me every several hours. Is it possible that some other spirit has entered the body of my baby? My baby’s name is Theresa, after Mother Theresa, because, as far as I know, Mother Theresa had no sex life. She lived among lepers; oh, dear Jesus, a terrible thought just penetrated my mind.  I cannot speak of it. Criminy.  I just said, “penetrated.” Am I not redistributing properly? It’s just a bad minute I’m having.

Look, my baby is fine. The other day, I also thought that my mother’s spirit may have snuck into little Theresa’s body.  My mother was a fine woman.  We believe she died in a car accident along the Vietnamese border with China, at least that is where she was last spotted, after she had meditated for an hour at a monastery.  She was an austere, proper woman, and sometimes, when I see my baby staring at me, I know it is my mother, saying quietly to me, “Be good, my little one. Avoid the pitfalls of your twin sister. She’s a dirty whore.”  

My mother does not know the difference between a whore and slut.

Anyhow, Little Theresa is just a baby.  She’s not possessed.  I’m not psychotic.

And because I am not psychotic, I investigate. It is what scientists do.  

I ask my sister if she has been entering the body of Little Theresa.  She knows exactly what I am talking about.  She’s Catholic.  “You mean spiritually?” she asks.  “Like possessing her?”

“Yes.”

“No,” she says, and skipping no beat, “Why would I do that? I’m not evil or dead.”

“You wouldn’t, I suppose,”  I conceded.  “You have no good reason. Unless you wanted her to turn out like you.”

“Is this about me being Catholic and you being Buddhist?  I’m not going to convert your daughter from within, okay?”  

“Convert her from within?” I ask.  Does she mean, convert her into a disgraced woman? A low-priced experience — namely free?  I have to google later what religion free and easygoing women adhere to.  I hope they’re not all Catholics.  I hope they are Mormons.  Utah is right next to Nevada, after all. “What happened at that party?”

“Which party?”

“You know which party.”

“I haven’t been to a party in a few months — are you talking about Dad’s birthday party?”

“Did you do something at Dad’s birthday party?” 

“Hey, where’s Little Theresa?  Who’s taking care of her right now?”

“Who do you think?  My ‘baby daddy’.”  

“Your baby’s daddy?” She frowns.  “Why are you speaking like that?”

“I’m trying to get on your level.”

“My level? You mean, the level of a normal American?”

“Is it patriotic to do what you did at that party?”

“What did I do?”

“You sucked –” And then I just let the silence hang like a giant banana leaf in zero gravity.

“What are you talking about?”

“Look,” and I showed her a video of my Little Theresa pumping her butt up in the air like what I’ve seen strippers do on Law and Order SVU.  And then I remembered, the villain on that sex crimes police show is never the black guy that they first accuse.  It’s not even a black guy.  It’s the white guy who they accuse afterward, and then they apologize to the black guy. That’s the formula.  I’m not formulaic.

My sister is laughing hysterically.  “That’s hilarious.”  I’m not going to accuse her.  She’s my sister after all.  She’s me, just with a loose vaginal organ.

I have to go find someone else.  Someone who will tell me the truth. My only decent male friend.

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