Allow Me to Retort

After I turned off three burners, moved my still sizzling bacon to the side, and made sure no fire hazards were present, I carefully tiptoed through the dark so my mother wouldn't think I was using too much electricity and put my shoes on to help get our three new rescue kitties. I went to the car, got them out, and took them inside where I set the kennel on the couch with the door open so they could come out when they felt comfortable. I quickly took off my shoes by the kitchen and went in to resume making my grilled bacon and three-cheese sandwich for dinner, alfredo sauce for later use, and a Philly steak sandwich for tomorrow's lunch. Delicious! At that point my mother bent over and picked my shoes up and said, "will you please take your shoes off by the front door? It will save on vacuuming." I shit you not. And although I know that walking through two more rooms to take off my shoes would actually increase the amount of dirt on the floor, I bit my tongue. Because, you see, I love my mother. But, because she decided to write a rather hurtful post about me and my "sloppy       spacing", which I still hear the world complaining about, I will be silent no longer.

Mother, not every fucking situation needs to be a life lesson. If for some reason you hate the fact that I use toothpaste, then say something! Don't shut it away with all of my other hygiene products in the loudest cupboard with a swinging light bulb that ever existed. I actually try to be quiet because you sleep with your door open two feet from the bathroom! So a few nights I didn't even brush my teeth because I didn't want to open that stupid closet. And for the love of god, stop leaving dishes in the sink if I'm not allowed to! Heaven forbid if I accidentally put your banned-from-the-dishwasher-dish-of-the-week you take it out and leave it in the sink for me to learn a lesson. People, guess what!? She left her sloppy egg pan and spatula in the sink this morning and I had to wash it! Oh my god!!

Now, some of you may have detected some sarcasm there. Well done. But I can assure you that from the moment my mother had the washer and dryer brought up into the smallest bedroom (mine), she's been slowly trying to drive me away from here. It all started for me the day I got a job and she was actually mad at me because I had to work instead of sit at home and wait for the plumber. She actually had the nerve to tell me I should ask if I could start a day later. I still have that message on my phone if anybody needs proof. Then where I really lost it is when she told me I had to ask her first if I were going to have family over. And from there it went south. I haven't wanted to communicate with her since.

I'm not going to include a lot in this post. But I will say that I don't have friends over often. Somebody recently said that maybe she has forgotten where she came from. And I think that may be true. When I was in prison and we were writing back and forth, and speaking when we could, I thought we had become closer than ever. And after two months I want to leave this house as fast as I possibly can. I have honestly thought that if I had no love interest, I would actually feel better going back to finish my sentence. It was just a fleeting thought, but even prison guards don't care if you have a lamp on in your room. There's no changing her ways, we both know that, I just wish I had known what I was walking into when I left prison.

I love you, mom. But you were trying to control the blog. You edited it without my permission, and that was when I wanted out. I kept writing for myself, and the one time I asked if you could write a post you fired off a very public paragraph about you needing more than ten minutes to write something. The world would have gone on.

You don't need to be ashamed of me or embarrassed of me anymore, mom. I thought we were over that. I thought you had broken free of that shame. You had not, that's why I had to leave the blog. I was hurt. I was pissed. Maybe we should have read between the lines.