My Mother Is a Traffic ConeMy mother is a traffic cone. She wasn't always one, though. She used to be a real person, with hopes, and dreams, and legs. But now she's a traffic cone. She used to sit, knee high and bright orange with a white line around her tip, on the corner of West 46th and Broadway, across from the Doubletree, where road repair is a year round thing. Now I'm not sure where she is. But I know that she's a traffic cone. In her past life, my mother was an attorney. An expensive one. Very successful by every definition. She divorced my father just after I'd registered for my last semester of college, once all my loans were in his name and his nMy Mother Is a Traffic Cone
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The formula of fear.
Guess that should be my intro comment to u... now if only i can find that confounded button to watch/stalk this page of yours
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