Oh man. Walking today I noticed an old man across the street. He had on a tweed jacket and big, thick, brown glasses. The next time I looked over at him he was lying flat on the floor. He'd fallen and I ran towards him and grabbed his hand to help him up. I thought, "He is my grandfather. He is someones grandfather. He is an old man who has been embarrassed. He is an old man who has gotten back up.".


I can do nice things for strangers but nothing nice for my family, huh? I don't know. I don't think I was so wrong and I think my mother overreacted incredibly. The hard thing about interacting with people is that everything is a reaction to something said or something done. It makes it hard to know who started what first. It makes it hard to know if I've always been a bitch or if my mother's neurosis made me hate being around her and thus, hate speaking with her.