Maybe I Need Dr. Phil, and a Hippo for Christmas

Yesterday, aculeatus asked me why I had anything to do with my mother if she caused so much stress. The short answer is that I've tried to sever all ties, only to be threatened with HRS-a well-meaning but misguided government agency that routinely restricts the liberties of cripples and incarcerates them in nursing homes "for their own good"-and the possibility of being declared "non compis mentis" so that my mother can control my life entirely. I doubt the latter threat would ever be realized were it attempted, but then again, people, and most especially people entrusted with American jurisprudence, have a history of ignoring inconvenient facts and trampling individual rights when they think they're doing something for "the greater good."

And so, I'm not willing to take the risk. It's easier to endure the misery for a day and cope with the aftermath. Better that than undergoing the indignity of having every inch of my life scrutinized for propriety and "normal" human behavior. I'm sure an egg-headed psychiatrist would see my propensity to spend most of my energy writing as a sign of deep-seated, antisocial, perhaps even sociopathic, distress, and I don't relish the thought of being called to account for my writings and dim worldview like a child caught with her hand in her underpants.

There's a more complex, emotional reason, too, but I'm not ready to articulate it yet. Maybe after the harridan has come and gone, I can present the wordless, instinctive impulses in my head, gut, and heart in comprehensible fashion, but right now, even I can't understand them.

In the meantime, I'm going to loll about on the Internet, watch the egregiously dreadful Paranormal State on A&E, and mayhap scritch Flackbunny or watch Bones.

Until then, something to lighten the mood:

I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas.

Me, too.