If I even tried have a conversation with my mom today about why we got hit, I would probably get hit for just daring to have that conversation. She’d probably throw a slipper at me if I said something like, “Mom, you know, what you did to us when we were kids was so wrong.” She’d be like, “Wrong my ass. Give me that belt before I wrong your face again.” She’s that type of energy. She don’t give a fuck. She’s the type of bitch (oh my God, not me calling my mom a bitch again)—she’s the type of mother who would knock us around in public. If we were in trouble, girl, the whole Walmart would hear
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