My Mother

is a bitch.

I suppose that’s where i get it from, although i choose not to direct it at my daughter, like she did with my older sisters her henchmen.  No, i wasn’t Cinderella, unless corporate america was my prince, rescuing me into self-sustainability at age 17. (That’s a scary analogy.)

Having lived through my childhood, I don’t even have to be around her anymore.

Its not that I don’t love her, i do deeply (if you know me, you know something like this would never be shallow); I suppose everyone loves their mother, right?

If only she wasn’t a Pretender (#fuqafukushima who has tym 4 that?), she’s really a very neat and interesting person, when she is being real — i DO remember that part from my early childhood on the farm. And i do, totally see how i am like her and am acutely aware of what I learned from her and use everyday in my life.

Peace, i hold onto that as my life preserver in a world deviant beyond my comprehension.  Peace is the place in my mind where all that is right empowers the work i do to change what is wrong.  Since one cannot change someone else, Pretenders do nothing but undercut the foundation of righteousness in me, in others around them and collectively.

And, i found out, after getting out into the world, I really don’t have to like her, so I don’t try. Because for me to try would require an acceptance she’s right. And, she rarely is, on the right side of what she taught me, anymore these days.

My dad once told me, don’t bother, she won’t change — i was still trying back then. He told me, find those who cherish your mind, that will empower you.  I took (and still take) his advice.

I sometimes think, what if she kept painting? I’d like to think if she did, maybe she would have more of her own thoughts, and wouldn’t watch so much 700 Club and Pat Robertson, and what came years later, Fox News.  Motherhood so twisted, her “mother’s day” message perfect pitch tuned to the song of the Police Union in Baltimore.

Yet, she is not alone. There is a large swath of Americans i don’t like.

If she was a random person on the street, i wouldn’t know to not like her and i would be, you know, common courtesy.  Yet after basic conversations about the weather or baseball, i would not engage further, as false humanity begins emerging at the most shallow of levels these days.

While we hold, fundamentally, the same values, i cannot apply the same deviant beliefs into reality as my mother does — that many people do, especially those i don’t like.

Pretenders, i call her and those like her.  Pretend Christians, Pretend Americans, Pretend Humans. Pretend Authority.  (Sometimes, i do refer to them as Zombies too.)

I pretend all the time.  I deliberately pretend to be different characters almost every day, it helps me to live with the Pretenders.

With my mom, i don’t pretend.  I could, and we maybe would even visit and chat like normal Pretenders do with one another, for me, that’s part of my job and not my real life — which is what life is supposed to be, especially with one’s mother.

Right now, the Pretender mother i have, embosses an ever expanding and increasingly acceptable police target on the back of her granddaughters’ heads with the Pretending she does with her compatriots in the real world.  #fuqoff is my general response to Pretenders like her. I say it with all the love in the cosmos only a real mother could understand.

Happy Mother’s Day exchange …

image

Global Police State Standdown. 

cc: my mothet

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