"Well I guess you'll just have to cancel your trip then."
Jean, the landlady tells my mother.
Jean, pastor's wife. Jean, saying it only in the nicest way possible.
Jean, who I don't think would be paying the $2000 a ticket per person if we cancelled our trip.
Who probably has not had to pack up an entire fucking life into limited cardboard boxes (and reuse them too).
By the way, the church they pastor at is the church my parents went to in London.
The one they got married in, and the one where I got water sprinkled onto me as a baby. Thank God not by them though.
It's not her fault that we're behind time, it's not her fault that we're moving into a tinier apartment or that we even had to rent in the first place.
I'm not blaming her.
I just thought I might count on goodwill and graciousness.
So I've been packing and unpacking the whole day.
But as luck would have had it, it's one of those time that I'm settled at Heather, amongst the mess in my room, that my mom comes in to tell me the results of her conversation with Jean.
I slept at half past four this morning and was up by eight.
I didn't get a nap, my limbs are shaking, my eye is twitching and I might not be able to go to my close friend's party tomorrow.
But it doesn't piss me off. That feels like it'll take a whole lot of energy.
Everything makes me want to curl up and wish it all away.
I can cry and bawl all I want, but it's not going to help a thing.
I'm not doing enough. That's it, isn't it?
I'm not doing enough.
All I want to do right now is find a corner that won't run away from me.