Mother

I woke up this morning rather violently to my mother telling me to get out of bed. Hardly 12 hours in the same house and already the army routine sporting it's hideous visage. Luckily I understand the value of reason: I need to sleep. Will take the bus into town. The mother skirts off, I'm sure secretly glad to be rid of pestering her most obstinate offspring into action.

This is my mother and I, always the same. She, the control freak, telling me when and how to do things, freaking out when something diverges from the plan by a hair. Me, being irritated and frustrated by her exclamatory nature, it's inate vulgarity. Yes, I was exclamatory too. It's vulgar in real life, if amusing in rare social occasions. Too big.

Later on in the day, I peel myself off the bed and plop right into the chair in front of the computer. Hardly 12 hours goes by without serious computer time. This time, I go in for a quick stat checkup, followed by some serious ebay reading. My sister catches me reading my horoscope.

I actually don't dislike my mother. It's just the way of past natures reasserting themselves. She is a remarkably efficient woman and she means well. I should try and profit from her experience and energy.

I just hate being woken up, that's all.