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Tired. So tired. Why does my mother always make me so tired?
Oh, Rammfen, you're so good to each other, you gaggle of vacuous, eternally-wanking wannabes, elitists, and hipster dilettantes.
That said, if the rumors of a five-disc box set are true, then I'm on it like a Southerner on grits. Yes, one hundred and thirty-seven dollars is steep, but I'm willing to pay it if it includes three DVDs, and I'm fortunate enough to have mad money stashed away for just such an eventuality. If I can't spring for it right away, I can always buy the more modest two-disc set and get the bigger one either for Christmas or early next year.
My mother finally came by today to clear out the garage, but alas, it wasn't to be the last of her, as she duly announced that she would be returning tomorrow so PC could trim the hedgerow and weedeat the driveway. When I asked her why she had blown off three previous appointments with no notice, she promptly threw PC under the bus and blamed her discourtesy on the lack of a phone. Well, whose fault is that? She's the one who disconnected the phone before they were ready to move, and anyway, it's pure bunkum, because they have a cellphone, and I refuse to believe that PC, one of the most easygoing men on the planet, held it hostage for three days. Chances are she just didn't feel like cleaning out the garage and couldn't be assed to lob us a two-minute phone call to announce her lack of give a shit.
And against my better judgment, she has an invitation to my birthday dinner. No, she didn't demand it. While she was here, I mentioned my recent panic attack. Without prompting, she said, "Does having me around really hurt you that much?"
"Yes."
As soon as I said that, she just...deflated. Her lip wobbled, and her eyes filled with tears, and I just couldn't find any joy in it. I've felt that bone-deep hurt before, when she blew off all my academic achievements as not good enough or the minimal baseline of acceptability. When she screamed that she wished she'd aborted me, or that I'd crushed all her hopes and dreams by being who and as I was. When she told me that I should stop dreaming about marriage and my wedding day because no one would ever love or want me that way. Maybe it was true, but no young girl should have that daydream stolen from them, least of all by their mother. When she told me that I was a hateful bitch, and that she never loved me. I know what that feels like, and I don't want to inflict that pain on anyone else.
Maybe it was just more emotional manipulation. Probably. But I don't want to be that monster, that rock-throwing troglodyte who takes petty glee in watching the outcast crawl away to lick their wounds. I might regret the invitation, but it's better than regretting the alternative.
Oh, Rammfen, you're so good to each other, you gaggle of vacuous, eternally-wanking wannabes, elitists, and hipster dilettantes.
That said, if the rumors of a five-disc box set are true, then I'm on it like a Southerner on grits. Yes, one hundred and thirty-seven dollars is steep, but I'm willing to pay it if it includes three DVDs, and I'm fortunate enough to have mad money stashed away for just such an eventuality. If I can't spring for it right away, I can always buy the more modest two-disc set and get the bigger one either for Christmas or early next year.
My mother finally came by today to clear out the garage, but alas, it wasn't to be the last of her, as she duly announced that she would be returning tomorrow so PC could trim the hedgerow and weedeat the driveway. When I asked her why she had blown off three previous appointments with no notice, she promptly threw PC under the bus and blamed her discourtesy on the lack of a phone. Well, whose fault is that? She's the one who disconnected the phone before they were ready to move, and anyway, it's pure bunkum, because they have a cellphone, and I refuse to believe that PC, one of the most easygoing men on the planet, held it hostage for three days. Chances are she just didn't feel like cleaning out the garage and couldn't be assed to lob us a two-minute phone call to announce her lack of give a shit.
And against my better judgment, she has an invitation to my birthday dinner. No, she didn't demand it. While she was here, I mentioned my recent panic attack. Without prompting, she said, "Does having me around really hurt you that much?"
"Yes."
As soon as I said that, she just...deflated. Her lip wobbled, and her eyes filled with tears, and I just couldn't find any joy in it. I've felt that bone-deep hurt before, when she blew off all my academic achievements as not good enough or the minimal baseline of acceptability. When she screamed that she wished she'd aborted me, or that I'd crushed all her hopes and dreams by being who and as I was. When she told me that I should stop dreaming about marriage and my wedding day because no one would ever love or want me that way. Maybe it was true, but no young girl should have that daydream stolen from them, least of all by their mother. When she told me that I was a hateful bitch, and that she never loved me. I know what that feels like, and I don't want to inflict that pain on anyone else.
Maybe it was just more emotional manipulation. Probably. But I don't want to be that monster, that rock-throwing troglodyte who takes petty glee in watching the outcast crawl away to lick their wounds. I might regret the invitation, but it's better than regretting the alternative.
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