I’ll say because I know anyone who reads this will think I’m exaggerating, but if one person will inspire me to take my own life, it’ll be my mother, easily.
There I am, minding my own business having breakfast and she pulls out this fairly tacky necklace and earrings by my standards. She asks me if I like them. I say no. She says young people like these things. I say I’m not like all young people. She then proceeds to pretty much insult me just because I politely refused what I thought to be ugly jewellery.
In twenty-seven years, she has never bothered to remember what my taste is like. In fact, whenever I say I like “this”. she just rants on about how horrible it is and many other things. Can’t she just keep it to herself? I do, about how I don’t really like her taste.
So in case you’re ever interested as to the reasons for my self-hatred and obsession with death, meet my mother. Yes, of course she’ll seem nice to my friends and people she doesn’t know but when everyone is gone…shudder. Seriously, what did I ever do to her? It’s her fault I was born, not mine.
As you can tell, I’m having a peachy time at home. Three days and it’s been so noisy that I just couldn’t get any work done. I’ve wasted three days because everyone has been at home, and the TV is either too loud, or the treadmill is running. Thankfully, a friend was kind enough to ask me to spend a few days at the place she is housesitting. I somehow doubt I’ll half-finish a massive historical novel and rock band biography in those three days but perhaps if I don’t sleep…groan.
I’m never going to be able to afford to move out. I might as well just get used to the notion of rotting here in suburbia.
