Back from my holiday hiatus! I’ll be writing about America’s birthday in two parts.

It’s the 4th of July what a day it is. Full of fireworks and the aroma of succulent lips and assholes ground into sludge and packed into a phallus fill the air and they spittle and crackle on open flames. It is a day where we celebrate what makes our country wonderful and we celebrate the day that our country rose up and said “we don’t need no man”. A day where family and friends celebrate their freedom by doing keg stands and mosquitoes feast like the very kings we fought to reject.

Most of all, it is a day for the children with their face stained red and blue from the endless patriotic confections and treats. The children who look forward to the risk of blowing off limbs and appendages with great rockets of fire and spark. Innocent games of football and chicken can be seen all along the shoreline as I looked out onto the great sea that will soon sport a sunset. Then the festivities would begin as stars are replaced by blooms of colored flame. Magical.

Until then there I was sitting  in the kitchen as the only twenty-something at the party, avoiding all questions of college and future plans. If one more person asked me what I have been up to I was going to start my own firework finale right there aimed at their open nonsense holes. What did they want me to say? That I’ve been raising llamas in my panty drawer? That I had been giving out free tattoos to children in Africa? That I had been selling my own blood to fetishists in Kazakhstan? I just binge-watched “Orange is the New Black” for three days on netflix. Is that pleasing? It was for me.

I had made friends with another person woman at the party. She was pretty cool. We shared the same dry humor and I immediately chose her as my party safety net. Finally, an ally among the trenches. We both shared the same level of awe of how this one woman managed to squeeze her tits to her belly button. We had dubbed her Anna Kournikova with her immaculate white tennis dress.

We shared war stories and laughed until two girls who had just arrived wandered into our round tabled court currently being held in the kitchen. Two girls maybe 12 or 13. Young girls. One I had known for a while as she was the friend of one of my sisters. The other…

We have a saying in the South. In order to disguise the fact that you need to say something horrible in order to be honest we created this innocent saying to help things along in the right direction. It is an insult in compliment’s clothing. It is also the first thing that popped onto my mind as I saw this new girl.

Bless her heart.

This girl not only needed to be blessed. She needed to be thrown in a wash tub of holy water with the pope scrubbing her with a toilet brush and a Walgreen’s full of bleach and peroxide. She was like a lady in the night. A street walker who lives by her own means until a rich older gentlemen becomes overcome with loneliness and eventually falls in love with her. Hopefully before the packs of wild street dogs that had previously torn apart her clothes carried her away. I felt like I had been added to some sort of criminal list just for accidentally seeing her in my perephial vision. Suddenly, I was a 75 year old southern woman on a hot Atlanta day asking where her britches were. She looked like she had won the Hunger Games.

Her shirt was torn from a remnant of a sleeve to a shred on both sides. Giving the world a full view of her bra and just how tight her shorts were. That was really the only way you could tell she was wearing shorts as for as high as she had them pulled up, her butt was hanging out in a manner that made me question if she had any feeling left from the waist down. There was no way that she got in those shorts without assistance and butter. You could almost hear the fabric screaming from being stretched so much. She was covered in a thin dusting of grime. She looked like she had just finished filming a porn sequel to Mad Max. I wished for someone to call her parents.

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