And then it slowly came to blow up in my face. Mom. Leaning on me since I was seven.
She has eaten my whole life, with barely any gratitude.
Writing doesn't even interest me anymore.
At the Stewart Shop again. Don't want to go home. What am I going to cook for dinner? When will I start drinking wine? Hangovers since St. Patrick's day.
It's nice to have something ready to go when I get in.
I can't even concentrate anymore.
Dough still makes me fat.
I'm just waiting out a clock here. Every day is misery. It's all I can do to feed her.
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