Tuesday, June 28, 2005


Mom kills me. Every single time.

It's 11:15 and I'm on the bus coming home from the night of Pub Trivia (more details later), which I've just explained to Mom. "Remember those people I met out at the art gallery?" {Stop now! You promised not to tell her!}


"I was out with those people."

"Oh! How was it?"

"It was fun, but the guy just glanced furtively at me and RAN AWAY at the end of the night. Like Princess said, 'Useless!' I can't work like this."

"That's no good. You don't have time for that. There's no way to figure it out. Forget him."

"He's shy. That's all it is."

"You just keep thinking about it because you can't figure it out."

"No, no that's not it. He's shy."

"You just want to figure it out. Forget it. Something's wrong with him. You don't have time for that." {She's me, but with no filter, no sensitivity and no subtlety.}

"Why do you have to go with the most negative possible interpretation? Can't you be a little more positive?" I was angry but I kept my tone calm-ish.

"That's all it is. Just move on." {Move on to what, exactly?}

"No it's not all. You don't understand. That's not it."

"It sooo is." Mom says in a little teasing sing-song.

"No it's not."

"It sooo is." The same teasing sing-song.

"I'm going to hang up now because I'm getting very...frustrated with you."

"Ok. Goodbye."

From fun to fucked up in two minutes flat.

This is our first conversation post-Pete. So wrong. My fault? You tell me.

Grateful for: not yelling at Mom.

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