Moving back home at twenty-six years old -I don’t care how temporary a transition it is- is a fucking drag. To say the least, I miss my apartment. I miss my sinfully comfortable bed, DVR, free internet in the comfort of my home, my own bedroom and bathroom, and my neighborhood. Also, I’m find that I’m regularly having to explain to my mother that the window within which she could have instructed me in the ways of life has long past. Especially since I don’t recall asking her for advice on anything, but she always seems to want to give me unsolicited whomp whomping advice.
I don’t know if there is any research on the affects of eye-rolling on the musculature in their eye.
Me: I have a headache.
Mother: You should go to the doctor.
Me: Um, I don’t have health insurance and I…. (just want a fucking pain killer).
Mother: You need to get Medi-Cal. Don’t be ashamed to go ask for help. They have programs to help you. I know when we moved back to California, I got emergency Medi-Cal, because….
I stopped listening, but she kept talking. I’m pretty sure I didn’t say I have a brain tumor.
I understand that this is merely a temporary transition, but I’d like to stamp this transition as effectively complete.
My intended university, where I’ve deferred my enrollment, has sent my emails about enrollment. Tis bitter -unsweetened. The intricacies of being in school have escaped me. Apparently, my student ID photo can be a picture of my choosing. Next year.