Sunday, November 20, 2011

My stepmom's mentally fucked.

This post is totally off the norm for what I usually post on here, so if you're looking for conspiracy theory and spirituality, check the blog index in the right-hand panel and don't waste your time with this one.

My stepmom never seems to think of anyone but herself. I could go up to her and actually comment nonchalantly on how her head's shaped like a dick and that's probably where it's all gone to if she hasn't found hers since after she hit 250 lbs. decades ago before I met her. She absent-mindedly bumbles around, muttering pointless shit irrelevant to anyone but the devout gossipers of her degree - nobody else I've ever heard of. But what always leaves me pissed is her treatment toward my dad and I, like we're literally retarded. No, literally, you don't understand, this woman's not right. I've been charged with handling the trash the past eleven years, and, well... she feels she has to... reexplain... the process... every time... I take it out. "Honey, I need you to pull the handles out, remove the trash bag, tie it up, replace the liner, and take the old bag to the garage because it's smelly and smells bad and, whoa, it stinks up this place." Thanks, Mom. And, look - it's not as if this happened once and I just got pissed, like, "Hell nah, blog this shit!", it happens every single day. With everything she asks of me. Everything. Every morning, you'd think I was asking unspoken questions. How do I change my shirt, Mom? "Pull your arms through the sleeves and lift your dirty, dirty shirt off and leave it in the hamper." Christ. If 'birds of a feather flock together' like she says, I think she just pretends to see herself in us since nobody else is stupid enough for her to fit in with. Must also be the reason she acts like we're sharing her experiences at any given moment. She's cold, so we should wear coats. She's hungry, so we should eat. She's tired, so we should sleep. She needs to shit? I need to shit! I farted, did she fart? "Noooo, honey, I don't fart." Did you clog the toilet? "Noooo, I'd never do that." She loses her cell phone often, so my dad suggested gluing it to her ass because she talks so much shit. In chunks and pieces. Reminds me of a favorite line from nights of prank-calling with a Duke Nukem soundboard: "Your face, your ass, what's the difference?"

Don't get me wrong, I know I'm talking a lot of shit myself here. But that's the thing. I've been nice to her. She gets mean when her immature projections of conditional love don't reel in rewards of some kind. And the saddest part is... she often doesn't mean harm or offense because she just does it subconsciously... so she never sees the wrong in her actions. All these years of trying to help and explain it to her doesn't connect at all. So what'm I supposed to do? I can't be mad at her because she didn't mean it, I can't tell her to stop because she isn't hurting anyone, I can't intrude on her right to speak her thoughts, but I can't fucking stand her endless noise.

But I think she says all these random, pointless things and plays 20 Questions every time she sees us not because she cares, but because, again, she only thinks of herself. How do I know?... Well, when her questions go ignored, she usually doesn't ask again. It's like she never asked. When I ask why she wanted to know, she shrugs. No rhyme, no reason. Just said it for noooooo fucking reason at all. If it's any help, her questions are as hollow as her statements: "Were there very many kids walking home from school while you were out shopping at Food Lion?" Oh, yeah! I went to Food Lion to play a pedophiliac gangster, I remember now! "Was the cashier nice?" Oh, of course she was. "Was she black?" But I don't know anyone in living memory who fucks a give about the shit she fucks gives about. I might be slightly lydsexic timesomes.

When she makes us dinner, cleans the bathroom and does the laundry and dishes, unbelievably, I think she's only thinking of herself. I know this because her absent-minded, immature little self gets mad when we want to do it ourselves. The average, intelligent onlooker absorbing the meaning of my words here (unlikely) would probably quip it's because she feels inadequate in our eyes when we want to take over her self-assigned roles of service which she prides on and performs skillfully without second thought. But if you knew her as I did, you might rather find it's because she wants control, for my father and I dependent on her to do these for us and moreover feel indebted to her on top of these personal feelings of inadequacy I already have for being 19 and not serving my own food each night. The other worry she has is, we're retarded and wouldn't do it right. I can't fix a sandwich without apparently snuffing the heater pilot, flipping the bathtub upside-down, flooding the toilet, cutting my hand off with a perfectly-cut dick-shaped shard of the guest-bathroom's mirror, then using that to smash the neighbor's windows and set the garage up in an oil fire - with no oil. There's just no reason for her paranoia. I don't think she even realizes she's doing it. She already has power as it is; we don't know what she puts in the food, cleans our clothes with, or what fuckery her choice of dishwasher detergent does to our food-ware.

We're not worried she'd pull a smartass move, but make a dumbass mistake. Gets drunk every time she makes dinner. Would you want some drunk, absent-minded fuck trying to measure how much oil to add to the pan under how much heat with what amounts of whatever exotic spices she throws in there? Plus she wastes our money on food we don't need or ever eat - not that we can, because it's all for her cooking. So, why not - give us food poisoning, stomach abscesses and burn the house down in one sitting. Maybe she'll burn too from all that wine - she's already going to Hell anyway.


Of course, my dad and I will be blamed because we're men. "Its bcuz shes a woman, n u treat her lke shyt! phuck!!!!1!1!1!!111!1111" Yeah, believe it. You must be sexist yourself if you're gonna jump to those kinds of conclusions.

Maybe later I'll come back and add some qualms about my dad.