Family; Nobody Else Will Tell You

13 Apr

I’ve decided to write for at least five minutes before I go to sleep every night. Lately, it’s been 6 or 7am when I finally get into a sleep mood, so I guess it’d be every morning, not night.

Anyway, here we are.

It’s 2018, and we’re all stuck here loving every painful minute of it.

Today, after two consecutive cancellations this week on my part, I finally made it over to visit my parents. It’s been two weeks to the day that I got fired from the highest-paying job in my life. As my mom put it, “Your father said he didn’t like you in that job anyway, honey”.

So you can imagine my surprise when I was ambushed upon my arrival, with “you weigh twice your appropriate weight,” and “fuck you”.

Side note – this pre-bed writing idea is great, because I am falling asleep and have to cut everything short. Good call, me.

Anyway, as you can probably tell by my lackadaisical writing voice, I’m doing okay with processing the whole thing. My mom is a powerful force, and if there were a “force” to be “awakened” in this “star” war”, it would be hers.

The other crappy stuff about today, or yesterday, or whatever, was this —

I heard a cat meow while I was in traffic in Oakmont, and assumed I’d see a distressed kitten by the road as some type of sign about my true self, but there was no cat. I just decided to go to the cat cafe instead.

Don’t go to a cat cafe in a dress.

Don’t go to a cat cafe alone.

Why would I think I wouldn’t be on the floor fawning over cats? Why would I assume I’d be alone with a pile of cats?

Half of my hour-long stay, which would come out to $4/worth of my time, was basically spent trying not to flash the couples and friend groups who preoccupied every cat in the stupid room.

They picked cats up.

Don’t you touch that good boy, he’s having beddy-bye time.

Anyway, it was enough to distract me from familial hell for awhile.

I had so much fun not getting to pet random cats that I decided to take Vincent for a bath at the local DIY groomer thing. He yowled and all the dogs hated us.

I cooked from 7-11 at Sonny’s and made $50. That was cool.

Then Lily texted me and said Jason Hammel said that Al Stangl died. Which would normally be like “aw jeez” but for whatever reason threw me into a blithering stupor of tears in the bar kitchen.


I do miss wriitng and hopefully can do this when I’m not falling asleep. BYE

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