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S ometimes I have very dark thoughts about my mother—thoughts no sane daughter should ever have. Sometimes, I’m not always sane.
Sometimes, I’m not always sane.
My mother is a bitch.
“You’ll be living an hour from us! That will be incredibly inconvenient for you to come visit us, won’t it?” Oh, how will I ever survive?
I don’t know why her personality never developed past that of a porcupine—she was never raised to be a prickly bitch.
She could barely tolerate me,