So we were talking about that For Better or For Worse storyline, about Mike sulking until Weed gave Ned back to him. You said the same thing you said before, about “first right of refusal” on something you gave away. Heads up, bitch: when you give something away, it’s not yours any more.
So I ask if this means that she really was mad that I gave Sean those barstools. Heavens, no! you say. They were cheap! Whatever that has to do with anything. But you have a better example. Rosaline was giving stuff away after Aunt Rosie died, and it was right and proper for her to offer back the Lladro you gave to her. Of course you didn’t want it, and you didn’t accept it, but clearly, she owed it to you to offer to return your gift before she gave it to Valerie.
So I ask if the same applies to The Pasta Maker. Oh, that was a long time ago. Besides, Cindy has it now.
“Well, I hope she’s happy. The way you two were frothing at the mouth about it.”
“You were screaming and yelling and cursing Grammy all the way back home. You almost had a wreck on the highway.”
“Well, Grammy didn’t need the pasta maker!”
“And you didn’t need to scream at me. I was trying to get you to calm—”
“We were upset!”
“You screamed at me for no good reason.”
“Well, of course! You were at the end of the line!”
“It really made me feel good. It was really fair to take it out on me—something I had absolutely nothing to do with. I could just feel the love in that car.”
“Oh, what difference does it make?”
“Well, you’re not perfect yourself. Oh, I don’t want to talk about this any more!”
You god damned selfish bitch. You scarred me for fucking life, do you realize that? And you think that’s just the way it had to be, because I was eleven? You don’t love me at all, is that it? Kids are just there to dump on? To vent over a god damned fucking pasta maker? That was worth it?
You realize that it wasn’t just the Pasta Maker Incident, but that whole summer, when you and Cindy treated me like I wasn’t even related to you? Like I had invited myself, TO MY OWN HOME, such as it was, and you couldn’t understand why I didn’t get the hint and leave? And it wasn’t just any summer: it was the summer before grade 6. Of course you don’t realize how crucial that year is socially, Miss Apple Blossom, but it is. So I started school still feeling utterly rejected, and thinking of myself as completely worthless, and guess what happened.
I swear to fucking god. If Dad called me right now and told me you’d keeled over unconscious, I would say…well, I don’t know what the fuck I’d say. But it wouldn’t be anything like “Oh, NO!”
You are the most self-centered bitch I’ve ever known. But fuck, what do I expect from someone who once called a “family conference” and didn’t allow anyone else to talk. Fuck you and your pasta maker. Or whosever the fuck it is.