What The Fuck Are You Laughing At? Essay
My Mum comes stampeding in my room. She opens the door with such force that it almost flies off its hinges. At this point, whatever I was laughing at didn 't seem funny anymore. I wiped the tears away from my eyes to banish my blurred vision and regained eyesight, revealing a small yet frightening woman who resembled a bull that had seen red; she might as well have had hot steam coming out of her airways and been scraping away at my bedroom carpet with her back hoof.
“I 'm glad you find this so fucking funny!” she screams. She pulls the covers off me and grabs me by the hair, hoisting me up on my feet. Even though a proportion of my hair was just ripped out of my scalp, I couldn 't ignore the fact that I was standing there, in the middle of a confrontation with my Mother wearing nothing but my boxers. I didn 't know whether to feel uncomfortable or scared of what her next move was.
“I refuse to be treated like a mug by my own son.” She pushes me out of the room and into the hallway. I turn to her and try to conjure up the right words to say so I could answer her question and explain. Although I couldn 't explain. How could I explain something which I don 't understand? Even if I could speak, I wouldn 't have had enough time to compose myself because she began to charge, forcing me to scurry along the corridor and down the stairs like a squirrel caught in the headlights.
“I 've given my life too you, I 've raised you and fed you…