amber ale, first week of classes, fire escape

my mother never made me pb&js. they are disgusting, they are for soccer moms who don’t have time (or, rather, don’t dedicate their time) to preparing a decent meal for their kids. they are very sticky, they are very gooey, they are too sweet. they are american.
my mother never went by ‘mom’ or ‘mommy’ when i was young, or now. it’s solely ‘mama’.
my mother always kisses my cheeks with frantic glee and giddy excitement when i fly to spain to see her. in the airport of la coruna people stare at us as she yells “olaya! mi preciosa, mi foquita!” (foquita means ‘little seal’, my mother has always called me this).
i don’t want you to think she is a hearty bosomy saucy spanish woman because she is not. she’s not like a die-hard opinionated woman resentful of the US or her accent or any of that, she just wanted me to be healthy and happy so she never made me pb&js.

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