Last night as I was sitting all lesbian-like on Sam’s lap, I asked her if I’d already told her about what Mom did with regards to the computer worm I got the other night. Sam said, “I don’t know – did I already read about it?” and I said “Yeah, I wrote about it in my entry today.”
Mom perks up.
“Don’t you be writing anything nasty about me in your slutty little diary!” she says, and I realize that it looks about ten times worse than it sounded at the time, but still, I was shocked and somewhat amused. I’m like, “Did you just call me slutty?“
Everyone in my family begins to talk about how I write about them here. Jay pipes up that she didn’t want me to call her Witchy and I do it anyway. Dad says that they occasionally read it, so they know the kind of stuff I write about.
Mildly, I reply that I can and will write about whatever I like. My mother continues with a tirade (which I think was maybe half-joking) about how when I live under my own roof, I can write about whatever I want, but as long as I live under their roof, blah blah don’t write anything that insults them.
I tell her that I actually said “bless her heart” in the entry, and that I’d written about her reluctance to download an update from Microsoft, thinking she was downloading a virus, et cetera. It wasn’t insulting, so settle down already. Which she did.
Then I was all “I can’t believe you called your own daughter slutty” and she says “I didn’t call you slutty, I called your diary slutty,” and I tell her in a very Peanuts-gang kind of way that my diary is an extension of myself, so by proxy, she called me slutty.
Then I told her I was going to write about that today.
I Really. Need. My Own. Place. HI, MOM!