I’m sorry, folks, but I had a rather boring and kind of a sad day. It boggles my mind how anyone could hog the time of the day that I’d rather spend with my boyfriend, and worst of all, it boggles my mind that Rehabilitation agencies can tear this relationship or whatever we call it apart. I have no things against Blake that he can name, but he almost wouldn’t forgive me without force or coercion because I told him I didn’t care for his mother’s grief. Look, her grief is my grief too. Ok, I better flash back a bit and tell you the truth: my boyfriend’s own mother is suffering because her younger son was taken from her in a horrible way. I won’t say who did it or how it happened because I don’t want anyone to say anything.
I was there online with Blake on February 7, this year. Blake and I were talking, and then a phone call came in. Maybe it was God’s grander plan to show us what we were supposed to do that day. Unfortunately, I heard later that Cathy, Blake’s dear mother, was sobbing. Only a mother’s sobs could echo as hers did, and I could make out the words: “Why did you do this to me?” An investigation revealed that her youngest son, a working man in his early twenties, was the victim. Not the person who was also involved. Article coverage revealed two bodies in the house, but poor Blake couldn’t read it. Surprisingly, he only broke down once. But now, cooking is hard for Cathy, and she sometimes asks for her late son, who sometimes is hard to live without. Blake says he will do what he can for his own mother dear, but at least Cathy treated Blake like a treasure. I honestly thought she had the Golden Boy syndrome, where there’s a favorite in the house. That happened to me.
June 30, 2007
I was at a wedding in Boston, rather in Massachusetts. I should tell my readers who was there, and who was getting married. It was my father’s cousin, a guy by the name of Jonathan, and his longtime love, Kristen. Both got married that day, and I had to witness that darned thing in Cohassett. My family drove for a long while to get to the beach where the wedding took place. I had to wear either a spaghetti strap dress, which I felt would make me look like a whore, or the sundress my mom bought for me. No complaint about the dress, but the worst thing that came to me was the way I couldn’t present the wedding gift to Kristen and Jon. I felt like I wasn’t the oldest in the family, and was given too little responsibility due to my disabilities. My parents favored Danny, my younger brother, who would later go on to work for Embraer Jet firm. Lucky dog. Who would present the gifts at my own wedding, I thought? Who will dress me in white? Who will be my groom? The answer would be clear as my life progressed: nobody. I hate that word. Nobody.