See how this still isn’t any of the work I should be doing?
Last night we had a family tea–it’s what we do instead of dinner, except usually there is also a ridiculous amount of food. Mom puts them on; they’re okay, if you like that sort of thing, which I mostly do in theory. I’m not terribly close with most of my family, though. One of my uncles has a tendency to say things like “Spongebob Gaypants” and decry Otis Redding’s “(Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay” as a welfare anthem.
I mean, but I still go, because I can’t really not unless I want to explain why I’ve been skipping out on them. I dress up a little, sometimes, or occasionally I dress a little more provocatively than I otherwise would (not really) because clothes are armor and I have very little desire to make other kinds of waves. But like–they always tell me I look really nice when I’ve been spending the previous week seriously considering the benefits of jumping off bridges, so that’s–a thing. I’m never sure if it’s because I actually do look nice, because they (being related to me) can pick up on the lingering stench of desperation, or because my mom and her siblings talk about their children. It might be some combination of the lot of them.
I switched houses with my aunt–she lives in my old room at Mom’s, and I live in her old room (and my cat lives in the room down the hall) at her house. Going home, or back, or whatever, is always a little disconcerting. I still know where everything is, but I can’t help feeling almost like I shouldn’t be able to help people find the serving bowls and that kind of thing. Where I live now, I can barely lay hands on the flatware.