I take a lot of shit for being cynical. And fair enough, I would say, since it isn’t easy being around someone that loathes everything, but I do feel a teensy bit justified in being a chronic pessimist.
I was born to a woman that thinks she’s psychic, a man that has been married four times in three decades, and a family that includes a bipolar grandfather, a philandering prospector grandfather, and an honest-to-God axe murderer only a few generations back.
Think about it: I have nature and nurture both horse-fucking my life.
My mother dumped me off to live with my father so that she could follow her dreams of being a “real writer,” so I always felt like a burden to my current caregiver. She has recently decided that the way to atone for this is to try to force her love on me. She’s like a kindergartener trying to convince you that the macaroni-and-glue craft project she made is worth taking a framing and putting up in the hallway. You don’t want to crush her spirits, but let’s be honest when we say that the picture looks like ass.
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