That is how I have come to name the "author of my days", the "loin of my fruits", my mother. The reason why this name is so fitting deserves a fun little example of her behavior. A couple of days ago, I came from work all tired and grumpy, and she asks me for a favor. Something simple. Just try out a new monitor on an old pc we have lying around. Since I was feeling a bit… Indisposed (I just didn’t want to be fucking bothered by anyone) I asked her why that useless oaf I call a brother didn’t check it out for her, since he’s been home all day.
This question prompted one of the most volatile, freakish reactions I’ve seen from her in quite a while. She started shouting something about how I never want to do anything, that I’m an ungrateful little prick, that my brother had to carry that huge, heavy monitor by himself to the room (oh yeah sure, that’s convincing, my frikkin’ balls weigh more than that piece o’ crap), that she can never count on me for anything, that she’s never going to ask me for a favor again, etc. et. al, ad nauseam, seculum seculorum epluribus unum.
I just looked at her like: "what the fucking hell?" I hadn’t even said no when she asked me for the favor. Then she storms off the room and spends two days without properly talking to me.
I don’t know if she had a sour day, or if my dad had been around making her life hell (as always) or if she forgot to take whatever pills she is on. She didn’t even give me a chance to talk to her and ask her what kind of echidna had crawled up her ass.
Well, since I didn’t have a chance to talk to her properly, I would like to take advantage of this space to ask my dear mumsy:
Bitch, what the fuck is wrong with you? Did you hit yourself in the head?
I mean god-damn…
It’s not like I told her to go fuck herself or something.
I shouln’t have been all that surprised. She’s an outstanding woman, but she has always had a knack for exaggeration and adding huge amounts of drama to insignificant things like say, scratching your balls, or forgetting to put a fucking coaster on the table.
One time, when my cousin was living here while she completed high school, a friend of hers from school had a big bout with her family because of her boyfriend and needed a place to crash, so she asked my cousin. My mom went ballistic.
"WHAT!!! have you lost your mind?!?! we don’t know that girl! you’ve only known her for such a short time! what if her family are a bunch of delinquents? what if her boyfriend is one of those drug dealing kids and comes by and starts shooting up this house looking for her and kills us all? I don’t think so!"
I wonder who the fuck was this girl dating. Rambo? Goddamn.
Sometimes people ask me why i’m so prone to sporadic fits of dramaqueen-ness, then I look at her behavior and I see the answer right there, looking at me with accusing eyes and a filthy apron. The apple didn’t fall too far from the tree I guess. (How cliché, I’m comparing myself with fruit.)
This woman IS drama. And drama is SHE.
Now, before I part, let me press my forearm against my forehead and woefully express how the lack of cheesecake in my fridge brings such sorrow and turmoil into my downbeat existence…
Naaah. I’ll just pee and go to sleep.
