I looked 'round, and I knew there was no turning back

"They feel I don't deserve them, cuz their friends say I'm worthless -- inappropriately portrayed in my words."

It was 6:00PM on a Tuesday evening; disproportionate heat enveloped my partially dressed body sitting cross legged on the floor of my room, where I futilely fanned myself with July's T-Mobile bill. I had drawn a circle around my seated figure -- made of next month's bills and love letters from Wells Fargo. Enclosed in my spherical debt I organized a vanity contest to judge who was most deserving of my money. Wells Fargo used an obnoxious font in their cover letter; T-Mobile did not include my middle name when addressing, and student loans: they have a policy of deferment. And so, it was judged that there was no winner – the prize money to be donated to the BCH charity (booze, clothes and hair). Money woes tend to kick-start my junk food hankerings, and in less than five minutes my seat belt was securely fastened – boiled air blowing through the open windows, a pilfered Annie Lennox album thumping through the speakers.

I pulled into the gas station parking lot at approximately 6:20PM with thoughts of chocolate and Gatorade (considered junk food when you are the antonym of an athlete). I ruffled through my oversized bag for coins and fugitive dollar bills. In my rearview mirror I could see a woman yelling and gesturing rapidly to what appeared to be a dark-haired skinny 10-year old girl. The woman was shaking her daughter's arm and moving her lips rapidly. I tried unsuccessfully to decipher the message filtering through her hideously frosted pink lips. My fascination with body language now proved itself a necessary survival skill, which I always knew it to be. Through close observation (of the why don't you take a picture it will last longer family), I was able to re-construct the events leading to the verbal punishment. The girl had apparently stepped in a puddle. Where the water had come from I do not know – we are in a drought here folks. The mother was now scolding her for ruining her white sneakers, and for what I presume to be her carelessness. I stared down at my own brown tinted sneakers.

(AC/DC's "Back in Black" comes on – playing from an unknown origin.)

Out steps my alter-ego Betty, wearing hot pink shorts, half of her small ass hanging out the bottom, a red and yellow bathing suit top, dark sunglasses, and dirty sneakers. She walks, no she strides, over to the mother and daughter duo.

"Pardon me ma'am," Betty removes her sunglasses. The woman glares at Betty's long legs, the tattoo crawling up her stomach, the lousy attempt at cleavage, her dirty sneakers, wild hair, and thick eyeliner.

"What?" A pair of cold blue eyes stares back at Betty.

Betty spits to the side of one heeled foot, picks a wedgie from her round pink butt, "You know my mother used to talk to me like that." "So?" The mother pushes a thick strand of $100 highlights to the side.

"Well, you wouldn't want her to end up like me would you?" And with those words Betty smashes her dirty sneakers into the puddle, splashing the woman's nylons with a mixture of water, oil, and filthy revenge. The little girl looks up with a smile. She doesn't have to say it, but Betty knows what she is thinking: I want to look just like that when I grow up. Betty slides her sunglasses back on, snaps her gum, and walks into the convenience store for a candy bar, fruit punch Gatorade, and cigarettes.

(The soundtrack returns to its original tiresome score.)

In case it was not obvious, Betty is me, but with balls. I did in fact witness such a blatant spectacle of anal mothering, but I chose to play this additional scene – starring Betty – out in my imagination, and in the safety of my two-door Honda. If it can be any consolation I was wearing Betty's wardrobe, but with my boyfriend's ripped Rolling Stones t-shirt for that extra look of riffraff.

When I picture myself as a mother (I shudder), I envision my son and I speeding down the highway, listening to classic rock 'n' roll -- some hip hop mixed in for culture -- the wind blowing, and my son bobbing his fro head to the beat. Perhaps, when I have matured I will see a SUV, an Ipod full of children's music, and air-conditioning, but until that sad day let Betty rock on her mission to prevent a future of uptight, clean sneaker wearing, puddle avoiding robots.

I returned home at 6:40PM. This was my question to my own mother:

How does one go from -- "welcome to the jungle, it gets worse here everyday, learn to live like an animal" – to soccer games, PTA meetings, and G-Rated movies?

She had no answer, but instead chose to call me a selfish twenty-something. I yelled a "hell yeah" and sang the the lyrics to "Thunderstruck" up the stairs.

"You know where you are? You're in the jungle baby."