“Don’t eat that without washing it!” your mother shouts at you as she slaps the box of fresh strawberries out of your hand. “You don’t know what that farmer did when he was picking those! He could have just scratched the crack of his ass!”
You freeze in place, attempting to fully process what just happened.
My strawberries are on the floor. I cannot eat them now. Or can I? If simply rinsing off strawberries with hypothetical anonymous farmer butthole sweat on them is enough to make them edible, why does dropping food on the ground immediately make them trash? What kind of person sticks their hand down the crack of their ass? Do they not touch their face? Shit, I freak out when my toilet paper rips, and the sink is right there. No way they’d wipe their butt and just keep working. They’d go nuts. Are we talking about the owner of the farm or some kind of hired worker? Is he a migrant worker? Is mom racist? Do I have a racist mom? Oh, god, mom hates Mexicans. What other kind of prejudices does mom have? Does she have strong feelings about Jewish people? Should I bring it up? I could be real sly about it, tell her I got invited to a Chanukah party. Would she buy that? Are there Chanukah parties? Oh, god, am I being anti-semitic now? I shouldn’t bring it up. Okay. No talk about Jewish people. Does mom owe me a box of strawberries now? Is it rude to ask her to buy me some strawberries? Fuck, I really wanted those strawberries. I really really want some strawberry wine. Seeeeeventeeen. Damn that song rocked my freshman year. Just like Dan Maddingly. He rocked my sophomore year, too. I wonder what he’s doing? Probably got married or something. Oh, Dan. I wonder if he likes strawberries? God damn, it mom.
You have been frozen in place a full minute before your mom speaks again. “Emily? Are you okay?”
You know your mother is simply concerned for your health and well-being, but she may have given you an aneurism.