Ch-ch-ch-changes.

David Bowie always had the words.
Me? I've got words too. They're just usually profane and I've got hand gestures that accompany them in cute little packages.

My mom spends all of her time in her bedroom, curled up with the Food Network, a plate of microwave pretzels, and a few fifths of Captain.
We don't talk.
She and my step-dad don't talk.

So we're never here.

Barry spends his time occupied at the gym or doing tree work, and I'm.. I'm just always on the move. Grandparent's. Dad's. Aunt's. Mitch's.
Things with Alex were spiraling like a flushed toilet and even though it's safe for me to say I'm beginning to feel better, I'm still not going to stick my neck out and forgive being called a slut.

I'm not a slut, thank you very much. And I don't need anyone to tell me so. I know my own morals and that's enough.

But I don't need my mom questioning why I spend so much time at her sister's. She talks to me as if I blatantly came out and called her a bad mom. Which she is. But I haven't.

I've been called a variety of things from a broad spectrum. Liar, slut, and hot mama. All in the past two days. It's tiring. I'm wearing for sure.
I'm just so determined not to even take my eyes off my horizon because I'm fully aware of all the holes around me that I could crawl into. That I want to crawl into.
I know because I keep tripping in them.
Tripping, stumbling, and desperately trying not to fall.

I'm not complaining - don't get me wrong. I'm not crying 'unfair!' or 'save me!' Just 'slap me in the face when you see me reach for my hair!' because I'm high risk for yanking it out at the roots right now.

And Alex? don't get me started on that story.