Is she drunk? Is everyone?
I had to leave it all behind at twelve years old because my mind’s not right so I have to fight hourly to know the difference between reality and illusion. This is what makes you keep coming back to read me, huh, no matter how much my fuckin personality offends you you keep coming back for more, why? I am relevant.
Ok, it got to the point we couldn’t even agree as to whether or not she’s holding a drink in her hand, which I can see and hear all the ice tinkling, she says she’s not drinking, she sure as hell seems drunk (abusive), but we have no choice but to go with what people tell us, this is her reality, oh, and this is your mother, now my eyes conflict with what y’all keep saying I see in front of them, this is a smash-up, what would Frances do?
I’m mentally ill! Do you think for one goddamn minute that a sick mind is a disadvantage in this world? It is appropriate for my mind to be damaged, I am not a machine, there is no lifetime warranty, the poet fuct up, things are fine; minds fall apart.
So, my mind insists my mama, papa, all their friends and colleagues, sons and daughters, priests, nuns, mailman, fucking poodle across the street, y’all a bunch a lousy fuckin drunks, my mind has a drinking problem, it’s a very long list, same mind can’t tell one minute to the next what is real and what is illusion, yep, my angel, my guiding light, my loser negative up-chuck throwaway twisted mind, sorry, she calls the shots, howdy pain and misery, lost unchild, liar, hysteric, mountain out of molehill-life’s a bitch, and I wear her well, well, gosh, like a badge of Ireland’s hiccup shit-faced honor.
So here’s the floorplan, momzapoppin, you wanna keep me around, (why?) we gotta deal with my mental illness, gotta knock back another wreckin delusion. The way to convince my sick mind that you, mother, et al, are just fine, is to stop drinkin, it shouldn’t matter, but, sorry I need you, need ya straight, my insane mind tends to go for that whole pretending not to be a lunatic for robin’s frail sake, hey, fake it til you make it, this will get me back on track and into the daily routine housework embrace, as promised.
Sorry, have shit for brains, sorrier still: your legacy.
You quit drinkin and we’ll forget all the bad stuff that’s ever happened, this should be no problem for you since you never touch the stuff, enquote, and in case you do, you can just holler “black-out”, when no bad stuff counts, “Black-out! Black-out!” Fair is fair.
How come the moms you eventually hate the most are the ones who made you leave them?
Love will make you do things you wish you didn’t have to.
Rest in piss,
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