I Love It

No. I hate it. I hate her. I don’t even know what it is and I still hate it. I am normally more astute with my words, but honestly, that four letter word just about exemplifies anything I have to say about that wretched woman and whatever is in that stupid box. Jesus, how insensitive can a person be? And for what? God, I wish I could have my way with her aided by a newly sharpened meat cleaver. 

   No. I suppose homicidal tendencies would only add to her case. God, everyone is going to think I’m some melodramatic teenage girl, with estrogen infecting each and every one of the trillion cells in my body. She gets me this thoughtful, generous gift knowing full well that I would rather fall to my death in an elevator shaft than be stuck in a room with her. She's just putting on a show; I know it. I can smell her slimy intentions permeate off her person, her putrid aroma making me want to claim my territory.

   No. I´m not going to let this happen. This is not her day, it's mine. It's mine and I got where I was with no help from her. It's my day. I mean I guess it could be any one of the nearing eight billion residents of this lovely planet´s day, but every one is in this room is here for me, just me. God, is that too much to ask? Am I allowed to have this day, this one event, this one minute in time?

   No. I don´t. God, pull yourslef together, don´t give into her resentful melancholy of a preencse and just take her half-hearted present. She obviously doesn't want to be here. Her shaky glances around the room and recently chewed fingernails account for that. She’s uncomfortable in this room of close-knit family members. Good. She should feel bad.

   No. God, do not think things like that. It’s not going to help anyone. My passive-aggressive thoughts won’t change the history of our relationship. Let’s just get this over with, let me just gather up the courage to take the gift from this degenerate of a woman so I can tell her to naff off. Her arms are extended to me, a toothy smile plastered on her face. I notice the box is shaking a little bit. From side to side. It’s her. She doesn’t have the satisfaction of knowing if I’m going to take this box from her or not. She locked herself into a position that if she moves from, will show her dispensable position in my life. I stifle a laugh in my head. I suppose she wants to have the luxury of hand to hand contact. She knows she won’t get a hug or kiss from the likes of me. God, could this go any faster. 

   No. My destiny is to have this thirty second ordeal feel like an eternal hell. God, somebody just press the fast forward button in this cruel simulation! I purse my lips in the most constructed of smiles, the kind that takes all of your courage and will power to muster up. And the worst part, everyone knows my smile only needs to fool one person, and so they observe me cracking and breaking a little more as every muscle in my face finds its place in my smile factory assembly line. 

   I let my instincts guide me from here. I detach myself from the situation. Everything with her is impersonal anyway. My body runs with the morals and mannerisms my society has ingrained in me to use, and thank god, otherwise I don't know what I’d be doing right now. My legs carry me up from the wooden chair and suddenly I’m standing. I’m extending my arms to hers, and for a second, as if God really wants to milk this scene for all it’s worth, our hands share one touch, as her hands release the box while mine take on a firm grip, gaining the responsibility for the stability of the item. Wow. That sounds like an oddly specific metaphor that harmoniously fits perfectly into my life right now. My lips purse one more time in a futile attempt of a pleased appearance, and I sit back down. She begins to walk to the front door, having finished the dreaded transaction. I watch as she turns her back on me, and I’m not too surprised, but she did not even try to small-talk this year, when it was one of the years it would matter the most. Does she wonder where I’m going to college? Or what my major is? Or what any of my friend’s name’s are (the same people who easily just watched the most awkward interaction of two people ever)?

No. She doesn't care, and she never will. She never will. And just like, the slow motion stops. The light-hearted music continues, and the chit-chat of my friends pursues, as if nothing happened. And I’m thankful for that, there’s no time for me to wallow and reflect on what just happened; not right now anyways. I look down at the box. It’s quite simple, just a white cardboard apparel box with one, crumpled (most likely reused) lavender ribbon keeping its contents a secret from those outside. There’s a note in sharpie inconspicuously written on the side “Happy 18th Birthday Baby '' with a little heart, filled in by the same toxic black as the sharpie scribed message. 

I look up and her clouded eyes meet mine. She’s halfway out the front door, only her head visible, but as our eyes meet, and I notice I, for once, have her attention, I feel the need to say something to fill the space, the years between us. She hasn’t left. Why hasn’t she left yet? I close my eyes for the smallest of seconds as I make my decision, she needs to hear this more than I need her adoration. “Thank you Mom, I love it”.