Sunday is your birthday. You could be 51. You won't be. You'll always be 50 and, not really. Really 49. Why are you letting ME get older by myself? Isn't the little sister supposed to do that with you? Are you sure you read the fine print?
Sorry Renee. I'm still so angry about this. I'm angry about a lot of things. And, sad. Angry and sad. You name it: angry and sad. When will it stop? How will it stop? Damn it all.
And, I feel so bloody (salute to my new land) selfish about it all - because I want you to be there for me. I miss you. I have a list of projects I need your help with - not the least of which is raising a boy. A BOY, Renee. What do I know about a BOY. And, he doesn't make it easy by possessing a shared language with me. Doesn't he realize I don't know what I'm doing? That, I need some sort of break, here?
The most recent issue of BH&G (Australia) had the audacity to publish an article called "now Paint Your Own Art". HOLD IT. That was your job! I am surrounded by too many, too white walls. They taunt me.
And, who's going to laugh with me about this idea - cutting an Elvis image into your lawn? Laugh and then DO IT!
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