The problem with me is I had a great childhood.
This is a bittersweet fact of my life, as now I have nothing to blame my issues on. My mom wasn’t a career obsessed, impossible to please crazypants, who tried to force me into childhood beauty pageants and acting classes so that she could live out her dreams. She was actually a stay at home mom, who had cookies and a plate of assorted cheeses waiting for me every day after school.
My dad wasn’t in the slammer after various robbery attempts, therefore prompting me to search for love in all the inappropriate places because I suffered from daddy abandonment issues. Instead, he sat through the intolerable rehashing of my entire school day each night after dinner, when I would give him a plethora of “homework assignments” to be handed in the next night.
But can I just say that it’s pretty sad when you can’t pass a spelling test given to you by your 7 year old daughter.
My brother, on the other hand, he was the thorn in my rose garden of a chidhood. He never once in all my living days: a) talked to me, or b) let me so much as walk in the same vicinity of his Nintendo. Although deeply scarring, I don’t feel that I can justify blaming all of my insanity upon him. Ugh.
By the way, Who’s the elephant?