So my grandmother and I said our goodbyes before work this morning, as she's heading back home to Arkansas (insert banjo here) to get ready for her knee replacement surgery on the 24th. She's having some sort of mechanical, synthetic knee inserted into the place that is currently occupied by old, disintegrating knee, and I wish I would have known this was coming because I gladly would have offered her one of the totally human knees from out of my chest freezer, but now it's too late because she's going to be part-cyborg and I just can't get comfortable with the idea of eating a Thanksgiving dinner that was prepared by a robot. I'm old fashioned like that.
The real reason for this post is and EMERGENCY CRY FOR ASSVICE from you, the creepy Interwebnet strangers, because last night I attempted to set up an email account for my robot-neigh-grandmother, and my mother piped in from the kitchen and said, "Maybe tomorrow night you can help me set up a Facebook page," and then I had a stroke and died right there on the couch, with Landers by my side.
In lieu of flowers, Cat asks that a donation be made in her name to her name. Cash, if possible.
Because, um, I'm guessing if my mother has a Facebook page, she'll want to add me to her friend list and, well, I'm not exactly ok with that concept. In fact, I'm abso-fucking-lutely ANTI THAT CONCEPT, because the Facebook bone's connected to the Blogger bone, and I'm guessing that she might follow the trail to this here website and, subsequently, die from a stroke herself.
Now...my mom knows that she and I do not believe in the same variety of higher powers, or in higher powers at all, and she knows that my lifestyle is...less pious than her idea of what a pious lifestyle should be, and she knows that I write things for school that make her cringe.
What she doesn't know is that I have a website that basically amounts to a giant FUCK YOU MOM, and even though that is not my intention here (you won't be surprised to know that I never even consider my mother or her feelings when carrying on about my business), she will most definitely view the content of this blog as a personal affront, if not to her, then at least to her friend Jesus, and I love my mother (crazy though she may be) and I don't want to hurt her.
On the other hand, this is MY blog, not hers. When I was a fourteen, I "dated" the youth pastor's little brother (he was nineteen, but this didn't seem to be a problem for our families because he was a "man of god", or whatever), and at one point we made out a little and he basically dry-humped my stomach for 45 minutes, then apparently god spoke to him and told him he was DIRTY FILTHY EVIL, so he felt the need to tattle on himself. That's right, TATTLE. So when my mom heard from our pastor who heard from the youth pastor who heard from Mr. Dirty Filty Evil, she did not come directly to me, but instead went into my bedroom and read. my. diaries. ALL of my diaries.
And then grounded me and stuck hot cattle brands on my eyeballs and peeled my skin off. Or at least it seemed that bad at the time.
And he? Was forgiven because he was repentant, or some bullshit.
So ever since that massive violation of what little privacy I had to begin with, I've never EVER since been able to keep any kind of diary or journal. I break out into cold sweats and my hands clench up and I punch the walls and then I get drunk and have unprotected sex in exchange for drugs. Or something like that. It was traumatic, what can I tell you?
This is why I have a problem with the idea of my mother finding this blog vicariously through Facebook. I would, once again, feel the need to censor MY truth in order to pacify her, and I am not okay with doing that.
On the other hand, I'm already going to hell, so I doubt that the degree to which I'm going to hell is really going to make any difference to her god.
Interwebnet, WHAT THE FUCK SHOULD I DO?