Home » A Wasted Life » Murder Mysteries » Happy Birthday To My Voodoo Child

Happy Birthday To My Voodoo Child

38 years ago today, I brought you into this world.  You were a seventh anniversary present, and reflecting back, I should have asked for a Porsche. What the hell was I thinking?

I remember being in labor for days.  The pain!  The agony!  The crying and screaming and moaning got so bad, the doctor finally had to slap your daddy and tell him to shut the fuck up, or get out of the room.

After having what had to have been a harpoon rammed inside me to break my water…this little creature popped out!

Six webbed toes on all three feet, a full head of bright purple hair, four slimy brown teeth shaped like daggers, and two piercing yellowish-orange eyes, complete with third eyelid, topped with a thick, black, hairy unibrow. “Oh my God!  She looks like my mother-in-law,” I screamed.  “Put her back in!”

No, wait.  That was your twin sister!

Now…I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking you didn’t have a twin sister.

UGH!  What you don’t know is that I never cared for that whole crying baby thing.  “Wah!  I want a bottle.  Wah!  I need my diaper changed.  Wah!  I want to be held.  Wah!  I need a beer.”  Especially TIMES TWO!  PUH-LEASE!

So, no.  You don’t have a twin sister.  Well…put it this way.  You don’t have a twin sister anymore.

I decided to keep the tiny little blonde haired, green eyed, left handed one. The one who looked so much like me.  The one who didn’t look so much like her daddy’s side of the family.  The one who squeaked instead of crying.  The one who always danced to a different drummer.  The one who, as soon as she learned the alphabet, started writing dark, disturbing, haunting poetry…a talent obviously inherited from her dark and twisty mama…um…dead twin sister.

Anyway…HAPPY BIRTHDAY to the one I call my “voodoo child!”  (And sorry about that whole twin thing.)

P. S.  This doesn’t mean I like you.

9 thoughts on “Happy Birthday To My Voodoo Child

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