Mom and I, 25 years ago.


Notice the mountains in the background. I like to call that Olan Mills vintage.

Notice my face. A mischievous smirk. Clearly I was born to make a mess of things.

Notice my mothers face. Awesome. She still looks exactly like that. Except with silver hair.

This is why we need physical photos. Can’t do this on your phone (maybe you can). This joint hangs in my mom’s house proudly, like a trophy or something. Like her way of boasting, “Look what I made! He’s a headache, but he got heart. And he mine so you best not say a damn word.”

This picture is the definition of gangsta.


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