Verified Rule #11: I will always need my mommy.

I’ve been reading far too much unrelated material lately. About Cheryl Strayed coming out as Dear Sugar. Her essays. Her essays about grief (oh god), about motherhood. About Chris Brown at the Grammy’s and about justification of violence in our society. About feminism, about hypocrisy, about men.

And I’m just full of headstuff. All this reading has really impacted me. Some things just force you to think. Because when you get into battles of the mind on the internet, you need to know your shit. Wikipedia just isn’t going to help you out when you need to prove someone that geno and phenotypes are not proper reasons for racism. There is no “sub” species.

Ultimately, I know that it’s pointless to argue on the internet. Or maybe I’ve just been telling myself that to stop myself from caring. Maybe I’ve been sheltering my mind from effort by saying that everyone on the internet is stupid and thus, I can not even try to voice my opinion. But maybe this is why I have such a hard time voicing my opinion when I even want to – because it hasn’t been test-driven. Because I haven’t worked out the kinks, or argued with an idiot and a philosopher and a critic and haven’t gotten any feedback or flak or a fucking headache. I used to thrive on debate in high school. But English degrees are not big on debates. English degrees are all, “how ludicrous can I make my thesis while still convincing my prof I read that book?”

There is no fury in that.

I miss fury. I miss rages. I miss getting worked up about something fundamental. Even if it’s from a stupid Youtube video, the internet has been my classroom for at least a decade by now (UNGH), and it’s time I stop looking the other way when I, my ideas, or my thoughts are challenged. I need to look my computer in the face, and start rationally dissecting irrational arguments of people I will never see, and blogging about it.

Easier said than done, I’m sure, because I haven’t been blogging in a while thanks to my mountains of work. But. This isn’t a month-long goal. This is a mentality shift. This is a reordering of my priorities that focuses on my own mental growth (or the evolution of my patience into an absolute patience-steed).

Where my mother comes into this, is simple. I’ve been feeling like shit lately. For the past couple of weeks. Whether this is due to my body chemistry, my unmanageable stress due to my unmanageable workload, or just writer’s/winter ennui is irrelevant. I have been seriously sad.

At home, with my family, at 21.

Don’t get me wrong: my family is absolutely lovely. They want to buy a farm. They want to grow organic food. They hate when I fight with my sister. When I fight. In many ways, they are lovely. But they are not social. When they know I need to cocoon and work, they assume that I actually cocoon and work, instead of what I actually do, which is surf the web until I can’t put things off any longer and then pull an all-nighter. This immense(ly misplaced) respect for my self-control leads them into semi-abandoning all serious/loving communication with me in the fear that I will poke out their eyeballs with my sharpened nails if they ruin my train of thought as I am ambling to the bathroom, muttering things to myself. While I have been known to be snarky if interrupted, I most certainly would welcome an occasional, “Hey! Not decomposing yet, are ye?”

Although, to be painfully honest, when they do do that, I sometimes put on my grumpy-pants and don’t even look up, while saying, “Busy. Working.” BUT ALL THOSE TIMES THAT I LOOK UP AND SAY, “HEY,” with that pleading look in my eyes, like, “SAVE ME FROM THIS” – they still go away, saying, “I should let you work.”


No, you should not let me work. You should force-feed me Rocky Road while gently patting my back until I am able to function as a human being, is what you should do. YOU SHOULD NOT LEAVE.

And the contrast to this is my boyf’s lovely mama. They go out for tea, for dinner, for shopping together. It’s a cultural thing, I’m told, but I think that’s just some sort of excuse for all their love. In contrast, my relationship with my mama resembles those camps they set up in Siberia about 50 years ago or so, with all the cold, and the communism, and the death. You know those, right?

Ok. That’s a little harsh. (A lot harsh.) (Unbelievably harsh, now that I read it over.)

BUT. The point here, I think, is that I will always love my momma. And need her. And never want her to leave, especially when I am panicking and stressed and unbelievably confused. Probably more so when I’m 30 and still living in her basement.

Oh, ye, oh ye — a writer’s life for me.



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