My face hurt so I slapped it. When mom saw me do this, she took me to the hospital. At the hospital, a nurse congratulated Mom because her tummy looked big. Mom wasn't pregnant. Mom was just constipated. As the doctor messily scribbled some hip hop lyrics on parchment paper, he winked at me with an eye made of glass.

"I used to listen to Dre and smoke hashish!" he said with a British accent as his hand methodically patted my back.

"Is that of French origin?" I keenly asked referring to his 'stache.

The doctor wasn't paying attention; he was trying to pop a zit he found on his paper. Once we got the parking lot, Dad threw me his prosthetic leg and quietly began to shush me. Dad said I was too loud; the sky was trying to sleep.

In the car, I fell asleep. When I awoke, dad was drinking spaghetti sauce out of a tin flask. Mom wasn't in the front seat. Dad turned around and looked at me.

"Oh, you're awake. That's good, that's good," he procalimed.

Dad threw me his wallet. It was made of eel skin.

"It has too much money, do something about that!" he yelled over the foreign music. The radio was playing Japanese Pop. Dad's wallet was covered in teeth marks. Instinctively, I grabbed some butter from my pocket and quickly smeared it on the wallet. Dad turned around and sneered.

"That's a good idea," said the sneer on Dad's face. Dad's hand slapped me very hard. It hurt more than it should have, but I liked it. I looked at the sky and then at Dad.

I fell asleep. When I awoke, I decided to go to confession. It had been twelve years since I had last gone. Grabbing my periwinkle sport coat, I strutted out the back door. Dad was passed out, probably from drinking too much spaghetti sauce. I skipped down the street, whistling my favorite ditty. I couldn't find my car because its color was a mystery to me. The color "persimmon" was roughly scribbled on my left hand. Slowly, I searched for a persimmon car. After twelve minutes, I gave up.

Momentarily forgetting my fear of the dark, I silently marched up Main St. and straddled a couple lamp posts on the way. I was secretly looking for Wes Anderson's house.