After a lot of soul-searching, I think I’ve decided to let Mom move back in with me.
I may change my mind with the next paycheck, as I’ve finally caught up with my moving-related expenses from this summer. *sigh* But since she’s up here all the time anyway, and because — let’s face it — she’s never going to get a damn job or do anything to help herself, I might as well just accept the inevitable and use her rent as my travel budget.
It kills me. I LOVE living alone. I HATE the thought of probably having to move into my smaller bedroom because it has a bathroom with a shower and she refuses to take showers. I HATE the idea of not being able to kick her out when I’ve had enough.
This is one of those times in which you’re supposed to rely on your faith … that God will do the impossible, if you do the possible. Ain’t nobody around here even bothering with the possible or even the probable, so why do I have to suffer financially in the interim?
I’m sure I’ll kick her out again. Hopefully into some full-service retirement home that costs half as much as her little beachfront studio. The problem I always had with her is that she never left the house. Ever. Which is why I never went home. It’s nice to want to come home again. I’ll miss it.
God, I appreciate the happy pills that make me not as angry as I used to be. Not to rush you on the miracle thing — because if it’s gonna be a miracle, I want it to be a good one — but now would be a great time for her to find a man with great insurance and a hefty retirement fund, so that I don’t have to give up my one shred of sanity just to put a couple of bucks into my pocket every month again. …