The issue of privacy

The Sister called yesterday to yell about her $500 dress being thrown into the wash. Having known her for the last 24, almost 25 years of my life, you’d imagine she would know better than to yell at me. Post call, after I denied all allegations against me, I sms to say that I think it was The Mother who threw it in the wash rather than the Domestic Help. Which. She agreed.

 

Which. Brings me to the issue of privacy and the lackthereof of respect The Mother has for privacy. She recently cleaned out my room much to my disdain, but not wanting to rile more tempers, I keep my mouth shut and take big breaths. I didn’t pursue the issue, but I was internally raging. Human nature tends to forget history. The same way The Mother forgets exactly how mad I can get when it comes to the cleaning of my room. I dislike you cleaning my room because it requires you to move things around, to places I would have no memory of and therefore cannot find. I dislike it even more than you still insist on cleaning my room much to my ire. I detest that you clean it out, and when I look for something and come to you, you tell me, “I don’t know, I didn’t touch it”. BULLSHIT.  And what I detest the most, is that you take the liberty to clean out my drawers and cupboards like its your OWN. It really isn’t your room, even if it exists in your house. You don’t find out about your child’s life through rummaging through their things in hope of finding incriminating evidence. You don’t throw out their stuff because YOU deem it to be useless and you sure as hell don’t take their christmas presents, re-package it and give it away on account that they don’t need it, then YELL at them when they tell you they have already used it. Toiletries I buy, gifts I receive just disappear from my room. When I ask, “oh, I thought you didn’t WANT it.” Seriously. WHAT THE FUCKKKKK.  Have some respect for your children, Mother.

 

I love you, but I’m reaching my tolerance limits.

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