I wish I was a writer.
Sun is setting in my lovely allergy producing apartment. I dance to CBC drive music. Fun. Worry about going to group. Glad Obama won.
Hungry and it’s only five. Need to leave for group six fifteen. Driveway is being re-done, palaver of parking on the street, then on driveway at night, pain in the butt.
Blood tests. Fasting. Don’t want to do it again.
Sadness about my mother. She didn’t protect me or support me while always looking good. Why couldn’t I have had a mother who cared more about her children than about looking good at all times and never ever complaining? I know this is passed down through generations. I know I didn’t do a great job with my own son.
Still sadness about my mother. Why couldn’t she care?