“Only two years younger than my mom when she died.”
What is it about my mom, you guys. Why do I hate every wavy lock of hair on my head, and every hue of brown in my eyes when I see her move around our downstairs.
Last week, my fingernails were painted yellow. I thought it might compensate for the lack of nice weather. Everyone made remarks like “Were you finger painting, Rose?” and “If you wave at me, I might actually have a seizure.” But it wasn’t until mom reminded me that the color made my fingers look diseased that I decided to take it off. Then they were dark purple for a day, but I got sick of dark nails pretty fast.
Today, Matt asked why they weren’t yellow, so I told him as plainly as I could that other people didn’t seem to enjoy it so much. He went “So what? You can’t please everyone.” and I shocked myself by saying “Yeah well, I can try.” He told me I wouldn’t succeed. What a smartass.
I don’t really mean that. I’m just bitter because I hate when he’s right. He barely says a thing, but it seems there’s always truth to whatever it is he says. He’s quiet, but he’s right. I’m loud, and I couldn’t be more wrong about everything. I’ll bet that’s why he doesn’t like me. I thought the scarf and gloves were a definite “I like you enough to not want you to be cold. Merry Christmas.” but he’s been especially difficult to read lately.
Anyways, mom grabbed my writing assignment once it printed and didn’t hesitate to be critical. In addition to buying her that stuffed squirrel for her birthday, I bit my tongue and just let her rip me a new one.
I’m not sure I’ll be checking out the rec center with Lana as originally planned tomorrow. I only mention this because I received a text message from Frank, who was inquiring about a scheme to rendezvous. I am such a pawn. Such a pawn.
Holy low self-esteem, Batman…
