I don't remember the night she left, but I remember the morning after because you were trying to make me breakfast and you didn't know where anything was. <...> Well, I knew she'd come back because she'd left all her clothes, you know. She loved her clothes more than anything in the world. And I kept going into her room and checking on them. And then after a few months you suddenly said that we had to get rid of them all, so, I remember folding them all very neatly, and I kept hoping that there was going be, you know, a secret note or something that would be written for me, you know, just to me, telling me that she loved me, and explaining the secret magical reason why she had to go, you know? I mean, I still have this uncontrollable urge to just go up to people and say: «My mother left me, when I was seven». You know, as if that would explain everything. And I miss her. And I hate her. And I miss her. And I feel like I was on a train and it crashed or something, and no one came and rescued me.
I am a fucking machine fueled by the past,
Memory’s a memory until it’s a fact.
I can bury the hatchet and let some shit go,
But I got too many grudges to hold.
Saw a lot of people die in the end,
I never want to walk that road again,
Now I will never give up,
I don’t want to have it all,
I JUST WANT TO HAVE ENOUGH!
— When some quiet little infection destroyed my uterus, where was God? When my husband decided he couldn't be with a wife who couldn't bear children where was God? To hell with him.
— Don't allow eons of history and life to get blinked out of being just because of a grudge against your creator. So you lost the ability to make life. You're being offered the chance to play mother to the world by acting like one and protecting it. Saving it!