Cole’s birthday is coming up on Tuesday. The Bent 3 are struggling. But since this is my personal blog and not the forum for Brian and Esther to spill their beans, I shall keep the conversation focused on myself only.
I’m mad at Sigmund Freud. I don’t like “Mourning and Melancholia,” I don’t like 5 stages of grief. I don’t like any of it!
I’ve actually half finished a post that is quite sentimental and beautiful, but it will have to wait because at this moment I am determined to be angry.
I am mad I will never have the opportunity to be jealous of a daughter-in-law. I am bothered by the fact that I will never have my son’s wife think I am the worst parent ever and fearfully leave her children in my care. I am cut short the opportunity to compete for holidays with my son’s inlaws, this irritates me. I am mad I will never endure the better way she cooks salmon, lasagne, or pancakes.
Am I angry? Yes! At this moment I am text book. Call it what you will, Freud, call it what you will.
Now that I have regurgetated that from my system, I find myself creeping back to sorrow. Funny, I like anger better!