I wanted to send in to Post Secret all the things I really have to say to you, but I don’t think I can fit all of it onto just one post card. So I suppose my tumblr blog, the one journal you can’t find because you are not technologically literate, will have to suffice.
Since you’ve moved here, you’ve picked up ridiculous quirks and habits that piss me the fuck off. You are not white trash anymore, you are a lady, so fucking act like it.
Thanks for uprooting me from my friends and family and bringing me all the way to “the hood” of Portland. I love not being able to take a walk at night, listening to sirens race past my window all night, and wondering when someone is going to break into our house. This is just splendid.
Where the fuck did that accent come from?!
It’s cute that you try to act like you’re southern. Really, it is. Are you trying to impress him? Because he’s not here anymore, so knock it off. Obviously it didn’t work.
Also, I find it cute that you’re really getting into the “single mother” role. A bit of constructive criticism though: it’d be more believable if you were really on your own and not being supported by BOTH of your ex-husbands. By the way, I’ll buy groceries and pay for my share of the car insurance, but since you now have TWO men supporting you, I don’t believe it’s my responsibility to worry about paying the rent.
For the love of shit, STOP CALLING ME “BABY GIRL.” And stop calling everyone else “baby,” while you’re at it. It’s not authentic, it’s not real, it’s not you. Everytime you say it I want to ring your neck and make your breathing cease.
Please stop trying to tell me what my wedding will look like. Every image that you get from your “visions of the future” is absolutely stupid. It becomes clearer with every “vision” you speak about, that you really have no idea who I am. Awesome.
I’m really done talking about “what happened.” Every time you try to have a deep conversation with me about it, I can tell you are just trying to have one of those cliched chick-flick moments where everything comes together and we become best fucking friends for life. It’s not gonna happen.
I cannot trust you to be honest with me.
I don’t know who you are. Every story you’ve told, from your childhood to your life with Dad to being with Richard, has changed in little ways. But multiple little ways. So many little ways that I’m not sure they actually happened.
You didn’t raise me to respect you, you raised me to fear you. Though I do respect you, because you are my mother, and I could never let you actually read these things, it’s not because I admire you, or dream of being like you. I fear what you might think of me, what you might say about me, if I were to finally be myself around you, if I were to allow you into my little world.
Fuck it, Post Secret can get tons of cards from me.