Not the Strong Silent Type

Why are some people born with both parents? How do people have a mom and a dad in their seventies plus, and does it always sometimes matter? I’m struggling. If you haven’t already figured that one out. 

I feel so isolated. I’m not the anti-hero that can survive not having a family or the crafty character actor who can create their own piece by piece. The camera panning into the window of her kooky themed apartment and make the plain Jane protagonist go huh, so they made them apples into applesauce, did they? I suck. This is clear. 

Forever an inbetweener. Whiners are wieners. Okay, now I’m just listing off sitcom titles while simultaneously quoting others. Some I’ve never even turned on for myself. I’m too sincere for British comedy anyway. What am I even saying?

I still sometimes sing inside my head the vowel song while writing. The only private tutoring I ever received when my parents still believed there was hope for Neurotypical learning. Before they gave up for forever. I just finished watching an exploitative episode about the Westroads Mall Shooting. 

I was so hard on the step mother and in natural western societal fashion minimally on the father. How dare they send their four year old to a psychiatric ward to get touched by the professionals who are suppose to be looking out for him while his parents are at one of many stand still, crossroads only for and always without their son….but what the fuck do I know about the genetic lottery and how the winners handle their lifetime earnings for good or for bad? 

David doesn’t know me as a writer. He said so himself. I tricked him on my 30th birthday with one of my favorite games, you can only win by reciting the RIGHT answer at the RIGHT time. He loves that game, the game known as “What Do YOU Like About ME the BEST” This time he went with “nurturing”. WRONG! Essay response as to why, 123 GO! “Uh, um, it’s because I’ve only ever seen you around kids! You’re great!” My ovaries pang with waves of various resentments. How dare God give me a busted down vag! Crack heads get to be mothers and ruin society! Why can’t I?  And of course the “why doesn’t he see me for anything of intrinsic worth?!” I write down stuff sometimes!

It was a lose lose. I ended up feeling bad about my overall haul in life…again…on my birthday. And then had to be the apologizing Jigsaw for twenty minutes before leaving on our day of birthday fun. “My mistake, you may go from my little game!” My bad, my bad. You win this round.

While sobbing quietly in my bed today I texted my mom this: 

When you have time you can call me.

I’m just having a hard time lately.

I don’t really want to talk about it.

But I just want my only sense of family to feel like they’re there.

I’m not sure what I’m even expecting from her at this point? Maybe, self deprecating but still toxic AF Jigsaw comes out to play with her too? She’s just trying to live her best teenage life at 55, wearing a cowboy hat (envious my head is too big for any and all hats, AND she’s got the perfect kumquat head) and booty shorts.

Why do I keep fucking up her country summertime vibe? She’ll either choose one of two options in response: feel offended I consider her only a “sense” of family which is an insult in and of itself and also feel hurt I forgot to include my loving and equally emotionally unavailable, brother and sister in the text. Or she’ll ghost. Let’s hope she ghosts, guys.

Writing helps me not sob in bed all day. Although 69 Love Songs is blaring from my TV anyway while I write this. All that’s left is the faint wish of getting to go down on a girl I really find hot. Next time on Life With Kathleen: An Absolute Hell for All Who Knew Thee.