Monologe

Hey can I talk to you for a second? I’m sorry that most of the things I have to say to you are about my issues, but I really need someone to hear me out on this. Is that all right? It is? Great. It’s another thing with my mother again. I know I’ve been talking about her a lot lately. Don’t get me wrong I love my mother, but sometimes she can get under my skin. A few nights ago she came home in her usual bitter mood. I remember hearing her loud steady footsteps heading towards to kitchen and this is what she said to me:

Why did you buy orange juice? Can’t you see we have another one right here? Are you blind? Goodness sake! Is this how you go around spending your money on things you all ready have? If I gave you a thousand dollars, you would instantly spend it on gallons of orange juice?

She obviously had a bad day and was lashing out on me. My sisters were smart enough to hide downstairs, but if I dared to leave my mother’s sight, she would be even more upset. We sat down at the dinner table and together we ate in silence. I remember her obnoxious chewing playing like drums against my ears. Every arrogant bite she took, I would hear the bones crunch, the meat rip, and the juices drip. It was the most unpleasant noise. I can feel the narcissism in the air. It was prickly like the thorns of a bleeding rose bush. Her face was covered in chicken grease. I felt as if the sores on her face would erupt from the oils. Her pores were large and her breathing was heavy. The sight was unpleasant as well. I had the urge to stuff everything on the dinner table into her mouth; the chicken, the fish, the vegetables, and the rice. While cramming the food in her mouth, I would say, “Eat Bitch. Eat.” I wanted to shut her up so badly. Every noise she made seemed to be infinitely louder than what it really was. But back to the real world, my mother was chewing on a chicken leg while pointing out every flaw I had.

Are you stupid? What do you mean you don’t know what this means?

            You are so wasteful. Don’t you know how much those things cost?

No mother no. I do not. I’m sorry that you gave birth to an ill equipped person like me. I’m sorry I cannot live up to your expectations. And no, I do not know how much it cost for paper towels. I do not work remember? I freeload off of you. You said it yourself. I cannot do anything right. I cannot cook. I cannot clean. I cannot translate. I cannot do anything.

This is how I would have liked to reply to her nonsense questions, but yet again I sit there silently, taking in her judgments and complaints. Am I doing the right thing?