She's up to her old bullshit tricks again, My Fucking Mother.
If I haven't said this before, I'll say it now: I think my cursed life is the result of getting the worst tendencies of both of my parents. I doubt I inherited any of the best from either, but I don't know if that's because I've squandered any goodness gene from either or if neither of them had any to begin with. But I'm still trying to sort out which parts of the badness in me comes from my old man and which comes from Mother.
For what it's worth (and hopefully I'll remember to reference this the next time I'm hating my parents and taking inventory as a result), I think I am making a little bit of progress on who to blame for which of my faults. Unfortunately, that only becomes clear every time they talk shit to me.
Case in point was last (Friday) night, where, once again, Mother called me down for help with her laptop because OH MY GOD I DON'T KNOW HOW TO WORK THIS THING HELP ME!!! Per usual she asked stupid, obtuse questions that I can't even begin to answer -- partly because I don't know how to solve the problem, partly because she isn't clear on what in the fuck she exactly wants.
But asking stupid and obtuse questions isn't something she passed down to me, at least I don't think. It has been often that I can't solve her computer problem, at which point Mother just shoos me away and, well, that's it. With her problems (OK, with any problems that aren't mine) I quickly forget about them as soon as I am given the impression to not worry about them. I barely remembered what this one was about ... something about -- oh yeah -- something about increasing the size of this array of mini-windows in the online screen she had in her online real estate portfolio. It was really small, and the size of it should be increased, and I tried zooming on the keyboard and with the mouse, but to no avail.
So I pulled up stakes. Hey, Mother continually harped on how she could bring up this exact same screen with normal-sized type at her computer in Las Vegas, so maybe she can fuck around with it so it looks like how she wants it. I was done with it; I wanted to go upstairs to fold my laundry and watch The Amazing Race. And it was then, while I was walking out of her office and through the furnace room, where she says something that she often says to me when I fail to please her by fixing one of her fucking inane problems (and I'm paraphrasing here because she says a range of things that basically center on this one main theme): "You went to college, so I wonder why you're not able to fix such a simple problem."
Oh, fuck you, Mother. But it was that point where I realize that I have oftentimes been dismissive of people who let me down. There was that bitch I had to watch over at the flu biller place who was nothing but a sullen backtalker. Oftentimes I think of her, even to this day, and I think of her with such contempt. I really, really want to think she deserves my thoughts of her because she was lazy and insubordinate. But maybe, just maybe I think that about her because My Fucking Mother oftentimes said equally hateful things about me. Although my old man makes no bones about how much he thinks he's better than me, it's possible my condescending attitude comes from her.
Also, I always have the urge to backtalk myself, to always get the last word in an argument ... usually as the other person was walking away, like was when Mother pulled that verbal diarrhea on me, like she often does when she doesn't like that I couldn't figure out one of her impossible, stupid issues on her fucking computer. My God, I got acting like a cunt from my mom.
Because of this I ran away from home; after watching Washington Week I left home (while Mother was talking to Father, probably about how I failed her) to go to the stripclub and then to Glam Doll, where I'm writing this. Don't know yet if running away and complaining behind peoples' backs is something I got from the old man or the battle ax, or if it's a maleficent trait I made up all for myself.
No comments:
Post a Comment