Over Parents Weekend, there were two crazy things named Julia that came into town: the topical storm and my bitch mom. While many prepared for the wild winds and harsh rain, I braced my self for the nagging, bitching, and bipolar moods to come. To put things in perspective, my mother, in two days, did more damage than the tropical storm did to the whole fucking East Coast.
At least with a hurricane, you can prepare for the monstrosity to come since there are predictable patterns. At least some preparation can minimize damage. That’s not the case with my fucking mom. She’s the H-bomb of tropical storms, vaporizing any potentially thriving aspects of my life when she sweeps through. After she found that her 18-year-old son was sexually active, she went into a blind rage that paralleled the intensity of the natural disaster in Florida. But the Florida hurricane wouldn’t have taken my Xbox.
At least tropical storms are fair, since they harm everyone without any discrimination. Plus, victims of natural disasters receive soup, support from the Red Cross, or even a hashtag, but the only thing I get is “because I’m your mother.” Worst of all, tropical storms always come to an end, but I’m stuck with Julia for the rest of her or my goddamned life, whichever ends first.