Castration Epic (Part 1)

I am sitting at a dining room table at a fishing lodge with my grandfather, Shelley, a pretty girl I grew up with, and a black man I had never seen before. [Someone complained to me a few days ago that my dreams were filled with white people, which is probably why he was “added” to my dream last night.] We are eating roast beef. My grandfather is going on about the Middle East, and Shelley is politely trying to tell him that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, since she is a Middle East scholar, and he is just an old man. Suddenly my mother erupts into a long digression about how I was an effeminate child, and that I made strange sound effects wherever she took me. She says that it was difficult to take be anywhere between the ages of 12-16 because I used to embarrass her. Shelley looks down, embarrassed. My grandfather stares at the wall in front of him, thinking about this. I am furious and want to tell everyone that my mother is a drug addict and that she traumatized me as a child. But I know my grandfather will think I am spoiled, since he had already enlisted in the army when he was 16. And now there is no way Shelley will want to come up to my room make out with me on my bed. I begin cracking my knuckles, until I realize I have broken two of my fingers.