Although, actually, I think I have to start by calling a cease-fire on myself for having an opinion on my life (or lack thereof) and refrain from viewing it as drama, self-pity, or other negative appellations.
So, where to start. I’m 50 years old and acting like I’m 150. I do have some legit health issues, but it’s almost as if I’ve decided to just wallow in them instead of trying to improve the situation. I have been waiting to die for years, since my father passed away. It’s almost as though I think I owe it to them (both parents) to join them. And it’s not as if we were a close, loving family.
This is going to be muddled beyond belief. There is so much…stuff…bottled up. Only the safe notion that no one will ever read this and marvel over my blatherings keeps me writing.
I also have to stop editing myself as I write. 
My inner-wanna-be-author keeps trying to make this readable and comprehensible to the non-existent readers.
So, anyway, why do I STILL feel the need to protect a pair of alcoholics who should never have had a kid in the first place? My mother said to me, flat out, that she never wanted kids. And why does it feel like a betrayal to say these things even now?
My surrogate dad and friend, Ed, has been writing an opus about his life for years. I suspect some of it could be considered tattling and sensitive revelations on past and present friends, but since I haven’t been privileged to read said opus, I’ll never know. Where was I going with this? Oh. I was thinking perhaps I should write my own opus. It wouldn’t be nearly as interesting but, again, I rely on my non-existent readers to let me be free to say those all those things that still feel like betrayal.
