fromthemouthofmoi

Everyone was in their place. Everything had a place. Then my biological father died. I am not going to tell you anything that smells of manure. I am going to tell you how I feel. I don't feel much about my father's death, and when my mother goes, I will feel even less. I can already feel some of you cringing and see some of you falling to knees to say a quick prayer for me; don't bother. Myself doesn't need your prayers, myself needs all of you to ask me what my boundaries are and when I tell you, myself needs you to abide by them. Leave your packet of platitudes for the hour after my death when I will finally be out of earshot. If you would like to know why I feel this way, just ask. What's the point of wonder when you don't use your tongue? And don't be asking any questions to pass judgment. Be asking to understand me. I was not raised by either parent after the age of eleven. At the age of eleven, this is when the heroes, heroines, and those that ...

I hold many secrets of those that I love and for those that I could care less about. I hold these secrets because half of them I have forgotten and the other half, I know, that should I reveal them in anger or flippancy, it will be me that stands alone looking ill-bred. Merida is run amok and rampant with Gringos that love to gossip. I always expect this behaviour from people who stand before hallway lockers, dialing combination numbers, while acne wreaks havoc upon their faces. I am never expecting this faux forte from people who are my age. Plainly spoken, I feel devastation when I witness gossip. When I am asked to participate by answering a question or when I find myself overhearing it, I can feel the blood rush to my face with anger. I knew my mother was a hypocrite when I sat in the kitchen of her Vancouver apartment and overheard her bad-mouth another woman, from the living room, with what was gossip. I felt so inflamed that I jumped from my seat and asked her how she coul...