Today's Episode Of: Hey, How's Your Life?

On today's episode of Hey, How's Your Life, our protagonist receives a letter of vehement antipathy from her son. We'll examine the degradation of her mental competencies to the extent that she's been reduced to playing with building blocks and eats paste in the corner. Come join us on today's adventure! 

It was a steep decline. I wasn't at the top of my game to start with. That's truth. I've dealt with some bullshit depression for that last week or two. I may have lost track of time somewhere between "I'm not good enough" and "You don't appreciate me anyway."  Maybe I took a wrong turn at, "I'll just live in my pajamas." 

That day was an absolute clus-ter-fuck! It came fully loaded with half-truths, self-pity, passive-aggression, and martyrdom. All that was missing was some good old-fashioned Catholic guilt. What's a party without the proper favors though? What kind of hostess would I be? So, I brought that too. Later. 

Once I had properly fucked everything right in its keister, I was alone with my shitty coping mechanisms. I turned on the television and began eating my feelings. I decided that I was going to write a letter of entitlement to my partner, ushering in the Catholic guilt portion of our episode. 

For this, I would need paper. I hadn't yet been reduced to building blocks and refrigerator magnets as forms of communication. We'll get there. 

Typical homes have post-it notes or paper on hand; something of that nature. Some means of communicating with other members of the household. Some archaic way of jotting down ideas. Primitive grocery list construction. Not ours. There was no paper to be found. I like to think that I'm environmentally friendly. Really, I'm fucking lazy and prefer the convenience of modern tech. I'm error prone. Last time I checked, spiral bound notebooks don't spellcheck. 

All of this to say I wound up in my kid's bedroom. 

My son was with his Dad (Satan) on this particular evening. With a handful of trail mix in one hand, I picked up a loose piece of paper that I had found on his dresser with the other. It was blank. I turned it over to ensure that I wasn't going to be sabotaging one of his assignments by writing one of my "you done me wrong" notes to The Lobster on it. To my surprise, there was something inscribed on the other side. Initially, I was impressed by the penmanship. That shit quickly wore off as I read what the fuck was on there. 

Some of you have probably received hate mail from your kid. I had not until that night. It was enlightening and complete and total bullshit. 

So, my kid thinks I'm untrustworthy and that I "treat him like an asshole every chance I get." Little buddy, you have not begun to see "asshole treatment." What a vulgar little fucker. He was super hostile. Wonder where he gets that shit? 

I can make light of the situation and crack jokes, but the truth is, it fucking crushed me. How do parents deal with feelings of rejection from their children? I totally thought we were buds. I thought there was mutual respect for one another. I understand that it's within the bounds of "normal childhood" behavior, but it stings nonetheless. Can I fold this letter into a little hat for my pity party? Do I have an appropriate dress to wear? I guess this means I need to crawl out of these crusty pajamas I'm wearing. The ones that are stained with chicken tortilla soup and snot. 

I tailspin into a full-blown depression and decide that I'm a shit wife, a terrible mother and that the only people that really love me are my two cats. The only reason they care for me is that I feed them treats & scoop their shit each day. They're somewhat obligated. If someone wiped my ass on the daily, I'd be indebted also. I may even develop amorous feelings. I mean, you are cleaning my asshole. 

Now I'm faced with a dilemma. I can't tell the demon that I found his letter and let's talk about it. He'll accuse me of invading his privacy. I'm back to being untrustworthy and a terrible parent. I also now have to look at him and know how he feels about me. Is feeding him extra vegetables (all the ones he hates) at every meal from now until the end of time a terrible thing? Do I go to parent jail? What's it like there? Are there any survivors to tell the tale? 

We have magnetic words for the refrigerator. Not the ghetto plastic individual colorful letters - the ones for babies. Whole words. Can I write out phrases like "No, you're untrustworthy"? Would that be a no-no? I'll keep you posted on our progress. Maybe you'll see us on an episode of Judge Judy: Emancipation of the Angriest 11 yr old. 

If you're curious about all the other shit I was whining about, just keep reading. If you haven't noticed, there's always some melodrama that threatens the fabric of my reality. As it stands, I'm back to wearing clothes instead of pajamas and The Lobster and I understand we're better together than apart. As it should be.