I realized that I have a special way of not listening to my Mother during the Bitching of our daily conversations. I usually hasten my pace, if we're walking, or wear my stone-cold I-don't-care-why-are-you-telling-me-this expression while I look away and focus on anything but what she's saying.
I know it's a terrible thing to do. And I feel like the worst daughter in the world, but I don't find sense in listening to the fucking pitfalls of love when I already think that marriage is a bunch of bullshit fed into all little girls' brains the moment we realize that boys have protrusions. At this rate, I firmly uphold that boys have cooties and they will eventually screw you over.
Sometimes, I wish I were a kid again. She didn't give as much detail when I was kid, but I think it would be better if she had gotten all that over with when I was four. I'm sure that at that age, I wouldn't have a clue to what she was saying. (If I were six and she poured her heart out to me, I would be going to therapy by now.) After twenty-three years, I address my own mental issues without seeking medical help because my childhood wasn't scarred or overly-emotional or traumatizingly suicidal. Now, there is no one to blame but myself. And I have the right to filter the information entering my system, because the more I listen, the more it hurts.
I treasure the moments Mom and I have together. Though, I would rather talk about things like "when it rains, imfors."
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