Yeah, OK. Whatever.
For the past year or so my Dad has been trying to get me to visit my ailing Grandmother, who I never really knew when she was alive. She’s almost more dead than otherwise, as it is now. He drags her in to conversations like a cat might drag a bird with its neck broken, awkward, chin lifted and eager. This woman left emptied by men, I hate to think of her as my lineage.
She had eleven children, I was the youngest grandchild for a decade or so. By the time I took my first breath her brain had reached all of the names it could hold.
It’s not like I have anything else important to do, but a lot of the things are better.
Nothing really changes all that much. I have been thinking a lot of family recently as I had a pregnancy scare not that long ago.
We said nothing for weeks even though my breasts were so sore I couldn’t let you lie on top of me.
I have no idea where I’m going with this. I have been reading a lot of Vonnegut lately and comparing myself to everybody else in a way that makes me want to cut the tips of my fingers off like
If I can’t be the best why bother at all.
I think I did write pretty things once.