I figure the only people who would get who this is are in my English class, and I’m only friends with like 5 people in there so who cares. They probably won’t even know what I’m talking about, anyway.
I’ll try not to ramble, because I’m so good at that, but there are a few people who I want to address but can’t do so in real life because of my crippling shyness, fear of rejection, and fear of retribution. I’m a very paranoid human being.
To the woman who carried me in her tubes for 9 months and then pushed me out and stopped caring: You are not my mother. My grandmother is my mother. My boss is my mother. The woman who got me my job is my mother. My eleventh grade English teacher is my mother.
Would you like to know how they are my mother? Let us start with my grandmother. From the time I was 3 weeks old she has always been there for me. She nurtured me, fed me, hugged me when I was hurt, took care of me when I was sick, and babysat me when you went on your fucking trips, which I am now half-convinced is where you probably started cheating on my dad, though I have no concrete proof that you actually are.
She was the one that sat me down and made me do my homework. Actually, that’s what she did just now. Sat me down, all sixty-six inches and one hundred and fifty pounds of me, at the age of seventeen, a senior in high school, and made me do my homework. Not you. You never did. I was always on my own with you. And don’t you dare try to say that by the time I was home with you more often I was old enough to do it, because you let my little brother go the entire summer without having his homework done, and he’s just eight years old. You didn’t get my little sister her summer reading book and now I’m afraid she’s doomed to follow in my footsteps because the woman that owns the crotch she dropped out of didn’t care about her enough.
Gramma gave me the benefit of the doubt when I was suspended from school for something I didn’t do. You did not. In fact, the first time I ever heard the term “benefit of the doubt” is when you told me you were having trouble giving me the benefit of the doubt.
Gramma doesn’t drink. Only when we go out does she have a margarita. You pound at least two or three beers in a single night, and then you’re drunk nice to me and I’d rather you shout at me at that point because when you’re drunk nice I feel uncomfortable and I’d rather you just leave me alone forever.
Gramma cooks. You don’t.
Gramma cleans her house. You don’t, and then you throw a hissy fit when me and my sister don’t clean up your shit. It’s so fucking ridiculous.
My boss listens to me. You don’t. She treats me like an equal. You don’t.
Same with Debbie.
You are a terrible human being. I kept wanting to give you the benefit of the doubt. I kept defending you.