The drunken mother

I love you mom, as I will always say. And I know we are fighting our demons every day, but sometimes I wonder are you even trying? When I got mad because you went home a drunkard, you told me that it is your pleasure, that you never hit me, that you raise me well and all the alcohol didn’t stop you being a good mother. So now I should bear that unpleasant sight, cause after all it’s one own freedom…

I hate the smell of a drunk disgusting person; I hate the burping noise frequently happens, you raise yourself up, with dull and tired eyes, trying to hold back all the fun you had inside your stomach. I am sick of it, sick of every day seeing you like that, sick of how pathetic you look under the power of those drink. Why stay in those cycles, mom? Why keep relying on endless self-pleasure with those shit, are you trying to quench your thirst, is there any deep trauma I don’t know of, please give me a reason on your problem, so I won’t be so sick of what I keep seeing.
What else to say, I just want it to stop. I mean you look gross, and I don’t like grossness. And you smell bad, who would want to smell bad? But maybe you want it, you want that life, you want that feeling, the things that only people likes you who been through that know what you are talking about. I will never join the conversation, those beer talk and jokes you think it makes people looks wise and funny, the delusion they have when they think what have been spoken by their dirty mouth is smart.

Well, to be honest, there isn’t anything deep about a drunken woman sleeping on a bed, no big deal has happened, nothing more to write about than me who doesn’t know what to do with all the frustrations. It isn’t as bad as what others have, it is just a slight inconvenience, but I just never be at peace with your presence that filled with beer and nonsense.