My mother’s end was sad and pathetic, and very painful to me. Don’t get me wrong—I hated her guts—it’s best she’s gone—but it’s still painful.
The death of the Parasite lasted basically the first half of 2024 (parasite is what I started to call her at the end; she’d burned all her bridges with her preference for drugs and mental delusions over family and friends—I was the last one left who tolerated her—she probably had longer conversations with the pawn broker than her own flesh and blood). She died May 6, then the rest of May and June was spent dealing with the mess she left behind—not just the sizable physical mess (the loon hadn’t thrown away her junk mail for the last five—at least!—years), but the physic, legal, metaphorical, etc. messes left behind as well.
She was someone who loved to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory just to prove she was right. But she was a dopefiend, and that ALWAYS guided her thought patterns—which were already scrambled; although I’m glad she was half in the bag most of the time: It allowed me to escape from her clutches and live the rich and rewarding life of a feral latchkey child. Did you know I taught myself to make gunpowder at the age of eleven? (Thank you, Golden Book of Chemistry Experiments!)
[Stuff about books after break...]
