But although it makes me feel good as hell to express my hostility for my mother, frees me from the Panic Bird on my heart and my typewriter (why?), I can’t go through life calling RB up from Paris, London, the wilds of Maine long-distance: “Doctor, can I still go on hating my mother?” “Of course you can: hate her hate her hate her.” “Thank you, doctor. I sure do hate her.”
