How Can You Write a Short Story Making Fun of Old People in a Retirement Home?
Mother should be grateful for an attentive son, but she’s glowering at me, her pug nose crinkled as if I’ve spilled sticky pickle juice on her kitchen counter. Mother no longer owns a kitchen counter, and I no longer am a child with clumsy mitts attempting to fix a pickle and cheese sandwich. Mother now lives in this lovely retirement home where the management conducts Happy Hour every Monday and Thursday at 4:30, cover charge $1.00, all the drinks you can down for free.
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