Mary Slattery
Bio
Stories (6/0)
8000
A home is a home is a home, right? So, then my grandfather’s home is my father’s home is my home is my children’s home. Yep, that's right - four generations. My grandfather - my Poppy - bought a house for his wife and five children. After his family had all grown, made families of their own, and found homes of their own, he sold the four bedroom, three story, two way drive, single family house to his second oldest son, my dad. My parent’s moved into 8000 (the nickname reserved for the house) shortly after I, their third daughter, was born. And then my younger brother and sister came along and so this house became our home to grow into and grow with.
By Mary Slattery3 years ago in Families
Dirty Laundry
If I wanted to get technical, I’d specify in great, gory detail how the tattooing process is essentially a physical trauma by nature. A needle piercing delicate flesh thousands upon thousands of times, literally pounding foreign ink into an unknowing body for what could be hours on end? That's trauma. It's why so many pass out or vomit (or both) after spending some amount of time in the chair. And after all that self-induced trauma, you come out the other end scarred with this masterpiece, minimal or grand, and re-brand it artful body modification for the world to admire. It is what it is and if you're not willing to go through that kind of pain, you just don't want it enough.
By Mary Slattery4 years ago in Psyche
Flashlights
Back in high school, this kid Knoxin (who was later nicknamed Toxin), he was the premiere drug dealer in the south suburbs of Chicago. He left the heroin and cocaine deals to the big guys, though. His philosophy was if it was illegally made in a lab, he wouldn't sell it. "I'm not tryna kill nobody, man," he would say. "Just givin' people a chill time." What he meant by this was that he stuck to weed and pills like Adderall, Xanax, and OxyContin: legal in some states and legal for some people.
By Mary Slattery4 years ago in Humans
Sail
It’s strange and frustrating and intimate, being an hour late but the first to arrive. Anyone that knows me knows I’m a stickler for punctuality but for social engagements, I generally make an exception. Something about walking in alone and having no one waiting on the inside with the rest of the world enjoying the company of their friends and family makes me uncomfortable. So for Emily’s birthday, I thought arriving an hour late would suffice. I even waited in the parking lot for twenty minutes, considering who might already be there. Walking into the bar, I fell in love with it a little bit.
By Mary Slattery4 years ago in Humans