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"your father left you a lifetime of financial security. my father left me wondering if I was ever loved."
Last night she dreamt of showing her ass and then realizing she had a double skirt on. She had gotten a new job but couldn't for the life of her remember her code for the check out register. No one seemed to really care, and she ended up lazily trapped in a maze.
No one cares about other people's dreams.
"I'm in a pity party table for one."
"Pretty much perpetually."
"I should buy my grandfather some flowers."
"sure. you shouldn't cheap out respecting the patriarch"
"and I want to text to her something like 'hope Terry's nephew enjoys my grandfather's dough.'"
"Passive aggressive looks great on you."
"Thanks, I wear it like Annie Lebowitz wears black."
She had been up again at one or two or three before heading back to slumber. What did any of it matter. She was fucked, and she'd be the only one of her siblings who was fucked. The other two had married well on people who enhanced their gifts.
Mark was/is a saint, but it was correct that they broke up. Her bipolar just brought out the cracks in the sand house. She grabbed a stress ball when she wrote that one because it was hard to mark it as true. She would try. Most importantly, she would have to die trying.
It seemed like she was going to reckon that she was alone and no one - no saintly super father - or really any character - was going to get her out of this hole. She had no money, and spent money. The number two marriage taught her that even when sex was good, it still didn't make up for not going with your gut.
She had read a great quote yesterday. Something like "the biggest mistake is always trying to have your head convince you of something that disagrees with your gut."
She had known and has told you ad nauseam that he was not right for her - that she was doing it to get some sort of security. It was a total failure, yet it got her in macon. fuck.
She grabbed the baseball out of the yellow cup to fondle it again.
"PopPop would want me to get drunk on his birthday. He was always into alcohol." She could rationalize anything - besides she enjoyed feeling drunk. She often called it tipsy. Now that she didn't do gas station pot, it was the best way to shut up that "YOU FUCKING SUCK YOU TRASHY OLD CRONE WHORE" vibe and turn on a modicum of joy. She was one of those people who texted everyone she loved when she was drunk - things like "thinking of you beautiful human" or "I adore you." or just songs that she liked. It was sadly a way that she could get closer in touch with whatever she was feeling.
She didn't want him to think she was an alcoholic, yet she was often careful to do little tricks to convince herself she wasn't. She remembered when she lived with #2 how there would be times she'd just drink and smoke all day long while maintaining the job. They say it's not a problem until it interferes with something.
Now today, she had to get ready for her aunt. She could always wait for tomorrow if need be.
It was weird to accept being loved. She wasn't even sure she could really do it. Everything to her was easier if it was transactional: she "loves" me because I compliment her and pay attention to her and notice shit. Well, of course it hurt, but it felt safer than just doing what she did when she was a child... basking in the glow and then BAM! you're grown and your dad is a zombie and your mom looks at the mirror all.the.time.
She wanted to be as pretty as the aunt. Always. Still, they're in their 80s and the one-sided rivalry continues. Even the aunt paying attention to the youngest child causes both preening and resentment - "she's my wonderful flawed daughter and you can never have her even though you have amazing hair."
The flower int he geranium pot was orange.
Her mouth was turning into some old lady's with a resentful jowled set.
But by god she was going to get those fucking tires filled today.
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