When making conversation turns tragic

When I email my mom, I’m sometimes at a loss for things to talk about. There are clearly things I don’t mention to her, and certain topics we’re always hashing over. One thing I like to tell her about is what crafts I’m working on or want to work on. Today I mentioned to her that I wanted to make a few things for Valentine’s Day, since every house is going to look so bare after Christmas comes down. She responded in a way I know wasn’t meant to devastate but it did anyway. She said she sure wished we could work on them together.

Yeah, to a lot of people it’s twelve shades of pathetic that it makes me want to cry, this very simple notion that I would like to do mundane effeminate tasks with my mom, and I cannot. I venture any of those people are not in my situation.

No one is in my situation. There’s a reason I talk to a blog about this. And everything else. I mean what we call a life like mine? Cassie spends first eighteen years with unstable abusers who are so mired in debt they’ll never get out….to grow up and just do the same shit all over.

Wish I didn’t have to craft alone.

Wish I could see my mom.

Wish my worthless father would just die. Not that he’s even sick. Of course not. Life is notoriously cruel.

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