SUCKS. Nothing good has been wrought upon my life by change that others have brought.
Changes I have made—well, on occasion, have crashed & burned—I am at least more comfortable with the ashes. The Telecommunications Act Of 1994, for example—was NOT my idea. REAGANOMICS, for example—NOT my idea. My parents building a convenience store in the front yard & subsequently going bankrupt—WAAAAAAYYYYYYYY against my better judgement.
Some change is inevitable—had I had a choice, I would not have picked wrinkles & white hair. Let alone sarcoidosis & a broken back. Changes I have tried to effect to no avail—convincing asshole male sluts—interpret that as you will—that I am worthy of their approval… for instance. Call me a glutton for punishment, I'm a sucker for the underdog.
They say that "god" never changes—but the rules associated with deities always change. My grandmother's been tithing money "to god" all of her 86 years, and what the fuck did it buy her? She's been praying "to Jesus" forever, and what did she earn? Colon cancer. Probably more—we still don't have all the results yet. "God" would take care of her, "God" loves her, "Jesus" would protect her from all the evils in the world, right? Isn't that supposed to be the contract? Give your life to "god" and it all works out in the wash?
And now the bible-thumping troglodytes are calling it "God's Will". My mother says, "She's lived a long, full life—" –that bitch can't wait for her to be in the ground—she's got a ready-made bed and breakfast right next door, as soon as she gets rid of "that old-lady-smell."
If I could have, I would have kidnapped my Nannie a week ago, or longer, and taken her to a real hospital--NOT CHARITY—something like Baptist or Touro. If I could have, I wouldn't have let my mother take power of attorney—taking away Nannie's last scrap of control over her own damned life. And 95 times today, I have kicked myself for ever escaping the sticks for this shit-hole. If I'd have stayed, it might have been different. If I hadn't fucked-up so much, she might not be alone in that hillbilly ICU right now. Call me a narcissist, but I can't help the guilt trip—she doesn't have the strength to inflict it, so I do it to myself. I might still weigh 293, but I would have been there—but no, I had to make a change.
And I stand there, my thumb up my ass, and watch the tubes and wires hanging off of her body. Fluids go in, fluids come out, blood pressure too low, hit that Demerol button again… and she cries to go home after the second surgery. And I can't do a fucking thing. I can't change any of it—the Beastmaster has power of attorney.
I'm the only one she bitches at—despite the knuckle-walking cunt 'nurse' who talks to her like she's a retarded 5-year-old. I'm the only she bitches at—despite the inbred hillfuck cousin-in-law who prattles at top volume in the ICU. I'm the only one she bitches at—despite the Beastmaster telling anyone who'll listen how "confused" Nannie is.
I'm the only one she bitches at—because I'm the only one who gets it. Just for a moment, I wish that I could change that.