I'm pissed at my mom.
There. I said it.
You can slice it and dice it any way you'd like, but she's not here any longer because of her desire to be thin. And, not only her desire to be thin--NO--her desire to achieve her goal via a shortcut. She didn't die because of some freak exercising accident, or as a result of a diet gone wrong. She died because she needed to be thin quick and easy. And THAT is why I'm pissed.
Hey, guess what, mom? I would love to be thin too. But rather than undergo some elective surgery that someone with a heart condition probably shouldn't have had in the first place, I spend three days a week running. Yes, my large butt puts on tight pants and a sports bra and an ugly t-shirt and a headband that is so hideous, my two-year old laughs at it. But, it's better than sweating in my eyes. Which, BE TEE DOUBLE-U, I DID FOR THE FIRST TWO RUNS. Because I forgot to bring a headband.
And then, I drag my already-worked-an-entire-day-plus-a-3-hour-commute-haven't-seen-my-daughter-yet-today-butt outside, and I run. There are times that I am sure the oncoming vehicle doesn't see me and I'm going to have to slide into the nearest lawn. There are instances where I can actually feel my butt jiggle. And, the other day? I'm pretty sure the mailman laughed at me. But still, I press on.
And I keep telling myself, Oh, my mother could NEVER run...she could NEVER do a 5K. You know what? That's BS. Because you could have run, if you had ever tried. If doing things the long way, or the right way, or the hard way was of interest to you. But apparently it wasn't.
And so, I get to attend a BBQ where I watch a little boy's grandmother follow him around, doting on his every move. And I get to watch my brother practice changing Leah's diaper for when his daughter his born. And I witness some of Leah's more unsavory behavioral traits wondering what the hell I am doing wrong, and I'm pissed. I'm pissed off that Leah doesn't have what that little boy has. And that Marco won't have you to help. And I can't ask you for advice. And that our lives must go on without you and you could have prevented your death. You didn't have to die.
Don't get me wrong, if you showed up tomorrow claiming you had to fake your death to escape the Armenian mob due to gambling debts, I'd welcome you with open arms and delete this post immediately. But I know you're not living in the Caribbean, working the docks in a fishing village, answering to the name Bernice. I know you're gone. And I know that you didn't have to be.
My life, and the lives of everyone in my family, are forever changed in a horrible way because you died.
And today I'm pissed off about that.
And still I dream she'll come to me,
that we will live the years together.
that we will live the years together.
But there are dreams that cannot be,
and there are storms we cannot weather.
and there are storms we cannot weather.
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.
.
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