Block.
JOURNAL (02:58--08-29-2025)
I texted my mother yesterday morning, mostly to gossip. I wanted to tell her the latest shocking, disappointing, and heartbreaking news in my life. Your mother, after all, isn’t an atypical person to contact in such scenarios. I tapped out a message, lamenting over this and that, mentioning my inability to pay my bills—”late fees on late fees, unmanageable, trying everything I can—”
*buzz* *buzz* *buzz*
She’s called. Truly shocking—my mother hardly calls me, let alone answers my texts.
I picked up immediately.
I can see her in my minds eye, laying in her California King on Park Avenue, probably in some silk nightgown.
“I am so annoyed!—” she begins, “I wanted so badly to go to see Lady Gaga tonight, I was only able to go last time because I was a guest—this time all the tickets are way too expensive, I can’t even afford $700 seats in the bleeds!”
Are. you. fucking. kidding. me?
