I spend a lot of time looking for explanations as to why I'm the way I am. The less these explanations have to do with me, the better. It would be great if I could blame all my problems on Chernobyl. Unfortunately, I was many thousands of miles away from Chernobyl in 1986, so that's a no-go. I briefly entertained the idea that it was the power lines that made me this way, and then I wondered if maybe my mother beat me regularly, and I just don't remember it. (My mom got mad when I asked her. "Of course I never beat you!" she protested... perhaps a bit too much, methinks.)
Maybe it's because I was only breastfed for a year. Maybe it's from that one time when I rode my wagon down the steep hill in our backyard and slammed into the back of the garage. Or it could be all those fresh fruits and veggies my mom made me eat. (Just in case, I'm making sure we avoid all these troubles by steadfastedly refusing to allow fruits or vegetables under my roof. Same with whole grains and vitamins.) Actually, I bet it's because my mom would never let me stay inside playing Super Nintendo all day. She never let us watch tv either. I'm sure she hated us.
Turns out, though, it's none of those. It's my personality type! And what a frickin' bummer, too, because that means I can't blame my mom. Don't worry, Mom. I'll find other ways to make you feel like an awful mother. And don't try to pull the John Phillip Sousa card on me either.
My Mom Body (aaay_macaroni)
4 days ago