No, mother, I don’t want to go shopping with you. No, it isn’t because I’m busy. No, it isn’t because I’m selfish spoiled brat. You wanted to do something after, maybe? Hah. No, there really isn’t anything to do out there that’s worth enduring your passive-aggressive insults. Let’s call them what they are, shall we? You tell me that you’re only trying to help me afterwards; I don’t need that kind of help.
It’s nice and quiet in my room. Music really helps me get in the zone to paint. It’s kind of...it’s like letting go, almost. I don’t really know how to describe it. I’m alone, and there’s nothing else out there but the music, the canvas, and whatever colours I’m filling it with.
It seems like Allie’s getting busier and busier. Parenting must be tiring her out, she’s not very in-tune with what I’m feeling, like she usually is. That’s perfectly fine though, I’m not bothered. I understand. It takes energy to be such an awesome mom; Allie tried to cheer me up by telling stories about Jane. It’s almost like a fixation.
But hey, that’s probably how a mom should be, right? Concerned for her kid. Paying attention, looking out for them, cherishing every moment.
