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Just ranting.
#1
Useless stupid antique meat-brain failed me again today. Idiot thing thought that if I explained something to someone real slow-like that they'd understand it.

Maybe that would work if I was sayin,' "Yo, Homo Habilus, don't eat them poison berries or constipation will clog your guts like packing foam" but instead I was trying to talk to my mother.

Relying on the goodness and decency of others isn't actually that bad an idea, in my experience. Most people are good and decent. But my mother is not most people.

My mother hates me. It's because I contradict her and tell her when she's wrong.

It isn't her fault . . . that's what I've told myself since elementry school, what I had to tell myself to stay chipper and . . . sane. Not her fault.

But by the Emperor of Man on his golden throne, it isn't easy.

So that gets us to where we were. Stupid meat-brain told me to talk to her, even though that never works.

Whirling on my heel, atrophied limbs flapping like an anorexic windmill, I turned and re-entered her room, intent on making life fair and just.

Stupid meat-brain. I could have told you that that wouldn't work.

In clipped tones that likely didn't mask my exasperation quoth I, "I swapped [ESFP] chores because his was bigger and in a more central part of the house and it wasn't getting done."

This proclamation, a complete non-sequitor to our previous conversation about how I was irresponsible and never finished anything and wasn't as smart as her because I was failing school and she always did well in school when she was a child, was met with silence. So I continued:

"You still haven't resolved who has to fold everyone's laundry since the time that it was offically my job along with cleaning the living room and your office. So when the pile of laudry starts spilling over, I still fold it."

There are five of her progeny that still live here. But none of them are going to pick up after themselves, so someone has to pick up the slack.

"I have a longer list of chores than anyone else in the house, but I'm the only person who cleans them every day."

She pretends to laugh at that, to show her derision. And the fact is, I had mispoke. I don't clean anything on Sundays because no one is allowed on the internet on that ancient day of Roman sun worship and bastardized Jewish mythology. So there isn't a point.

"I'm the one who resolves fights between dad and [ESFP]." I'm that one that [ESFJ] comes to when he has a question, or when he learned something new, or just wants to talk about his day."

She doesn't believe that. She missed it all when it happened in real life, she's not going to believe it now just because it's true. Her perception of me is that no one likes me at all, she's said as much before, that I'm the common factor in all of the dysfunctional sibling relationships. She needs to believe that because she can't be a failure as a parent.

My voice is clipped, formal, cold: "I'm the one who keeps this madhouse running."

"That's your view," she says, feigning indifference and supreme condensation. It's an attack to her, not a fact that might or might not be wrong, a threat to her mental security. Stupid meat-brain, you should have listened to me.

"You don't see it. Because you hate me."

"I don't hate you."

"Bull. [ESPF] has his knee in [ESFJ]'s back like he thinks he's Peter Wiggins while [ESFJ] screams you watch them benignly. I tell [ESFP] that if his brother wants him off he should get off, I tell him three times before acting because I know you. After the third time I remove him and I still get in trouble for "attacking [ESFP] unprovoked" and solving my problems with violence."

"That's your view."

The hell? The bloody hell? That happened. It's objective fact.

"[INTJ] and I are sitting next to each other on the computers playing League of Legends. You're standing in the room I just cleaned and right next to the one [INTJ] hasn't cleaned in weeks because he can get away with it, and you ask me if my bedroom is clean. WIhtout walking inside you decide that it isn't, and throw a screaming tantrum that I'm "eating your food" and "using your internet" without doing my "fair share" of work. So I go AFK while [INTJ] tries to play short a teammate.
[INTJ] AND I SHARE A ROOM. We have the same bedroom.
You single me out."

"That's your view."

That's my view.

That's my view.

E-fucking-nough. Enough.

Meat-brain, I have made a resolution that henceforth this shit will be real. Do me a favor and shut down any part of my cerebral cortex needed for speech and redirect all o' da blood to my arms and legs. Thank you, meat-brain, you're a pal. Don't know what I'd do without you.

"You, you," I sputter, "you're like," (a pause while I riffle through my useless meat-brain for an apt metaphor) "someone who has this glass of soda, and it has bubbles in it, and you pay attention to the bubbles and ignore the drink!"

Not . . . much of a metaphor. It sounded better in my head.

"That's your view."

"You ignore everything that doesn't support your self-concept and that doesn't support your pathological hatred of me! I keep telling you that you are wrong when you think that you're right, and that makes you hate me but since you hate me I have to be this terrible person so that you're right to hate me, and anything that I do that don't make me out to be the literally incarnation of Old Scratch hisself doesn't make it through your skull! You're clueless! You don't see you don't look at the world right in front of your nose!"

"Are you done yet? You can leave when you're done."

She's livid.

"Are you going to fix it?" I ask, suddenly calm again, a mask of impassivity closing over my face like ice over a dead caribou. But still not very smart. I look calm but I'm not lucid.

"Fix you? I can't."

"Are. You. Going. To. Fix it?"

"Fix your view?"

"Are y'gonna fix it?"

"You're getting more disrespectful by the minute. I suggest you leave," she seethes.

"Are. You. Going. To. Fix it?"

"I'll give you one last chance to leave my room before I throw you out of my house! Get out! Out!"

So I got out.

Damn my stupid meat-brain. I never should have gotten in.
I came up with a very clever signature, as a matter of fact it's cleveritude was so clever that merely listening it would cause you to ascend to godhood. But then I forgot it, so instead you can listen to my gibbering inanities. I'm sorry.
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#2
I'm really sorry to hear you're having such a hard time, Yordle. Sad One day, you'll have a lot more control over where you live, your lifestyle, the people you spend time with and how that time is spent. It's never perfect, but at least some of that trapped feeling can be relieved, with some effort, and combined with the ever-present hope for tomorrow. I know that's not much more than an escape into fantasy, but sometimes that helps. I hope it helps.  Undecided
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