If there’s one thing all of my friends will agree on about me, it’s that I’m paranoid. At least, that’s what I assume they all agree on in the secret meetings they’re always having about me. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m one twitchy cat. I’ll start planning an escape route the second I enter a room. I’m never late. I’m terrified of offending people – even the people I hate (fucking Amish – what, you think you’re better than us?). There is always a snake in the toilet and a monster under my bed, though I’ve never seen either. But it’s not too hard to see why I am the way I am. You see, folks, the apple doth not fall far from the tree.

I’m a first-rate momma’s boy. Of the Elvis caliber. My Mom is almost too wonderful to describe – she’s funny, considerate, kind, and loves me to no end. I’m blessed to have her in my life. I’ve gotta tell you, she really denied me a shitty childhood to milk for material. She was so terrific a Mom, that I almost wish she’d taken thalidomide so I could have been born with flipper hands and have something to bitch about. Or snapped and driven the family car into a lake with me in it – that would have been gold! But, alas, she was great. She does, however, have a propensity to imagine only the worst case scenario. And lucky for me, this trait seems to have worked its way into my double-helix as well.

Here’s an example of where I get it from.

About six years ago on a cold Friday night in January, I was stumbling down a sidewalk in the lower east side of Manhattan with my friends Jonpaul and Aaron – doing the sort of things bad kids do at 3 AM in the city. We were racing to make last call at a bar called Void, when I turned a corner and flooop! slipped and fell flat on my back into a puddle… of someone… else’s … vomit. Oh my GOD, it was worse than you could imagine! I was stunned. The puddle had to have been seven feet in diameter and I fell dead splat in the center. I’m not exactly sure it was even vomit – there was so much of it that it looked as though an entire human being had just dissolved into the sidewalk (which is what happens when you don’t say your prayers, kids). I was flailing my arms and legs, gagging, flopping about in my puffy winter coat like a fish that had, you know… been plopped into a puddle of someone’s vomit (I haven’t written in a while, ok?).

A crowd of inebriated onlookers gathered around me, pointing and shrieking with laughter. Don’t you look at me! I screamed. I’ll eat your fucking pets! My two buddies tossed a pile of bar napkins at me, and giggled their way into the bar, vomitless. And poor Drew was left to hail a cab looking like some sort of freakish, pissy Oatmeal Man. By some minor miracle, a friendly cabbie pulled over for me and we drove back to Brooklyn in silence, the cab windows rolled all the way down. In January.

Saturday night was another doozer. I was going to meet my friends at a secret Black Dice/Avey Tare and Panda Bear show in Red Hook (that was me showing my hipster stripes), and I got into a cab which took a wrong turn and went over the bridge into Manhattan. What should have been a ten minute cab ride took an hour and twenty with traffic. I missed the first part of the show, wound up leaving early, and just prayed to Satan for the weekend to end.

So, I decided not to go anywhere on Sunday. I figured nothing too bad could happen if I didn't leave the apartment. That’s when the phone rang. It was my Mom.

“How was your weekend, sweetie..?” It was good to hear her voice.

“Well, Mom. Not too good. Last night I took a cab ride that took an hour and twenty minutes when it should have taken ten. And I’m not even going to tell you how gross Friday night was.”

There was a long, concerned pause. I thought she’d disappeared for a moment.

Deathly serious, she asked: "Were you... raped?"

Oh. My. God. I nearly dropped the phone. This was my dear, sweet Mom. The wonderful, loving woman who powdered my baby bottom. Who's supposed to kiss the bruise and make it all better. Who still holds my hand whenever we cross the street together (I’m 34). This was the first thing that popped into her head. I said Friday night was gross, so of course that meant I was raped.

What else could a guy possibly say when his worried Mom asks him something like that?

“Well, sure, at first..."

God, I love you, Ma.