I don’t know why I’m rambling on about this to you, but I guess my brain has always been wrapped up in tales. I consumed every book in front of me back in my playground days. Theatre came natural after that. It’s what I planned to go to grad school for. A really great grad school, a dramaturgy program with access to dance studios. But it was a different time then. I had been close to a god then. I felt it in the wind swirls that would kiss my face outside. I told myself I ‘d be close to tasting heaven, given I could use my brave mouth to stick my tongue out. It’s still my major, it’s still what I care about. I don’t have much of an excuse besides being completely distracted. Almost enamored. But then, wholeheartedly destroyed.

I believe my mom thinks she’s a god. Her eyes are a constant blaze. She’s hard to keep up with, she’s moved whole cities before you even woke up. She expects me to be the same - same blood, same brain, right? Like those mother-daughter duos with matching handbags and ponytails, who make blood pacts in the family bathroom of shopping malls after an hour of strolling Banana Republic. Yet, I’m hardly sure I’m a woman most days. And my mother’s disappointment with that wears a big, ugly, red face.