sort of emotional display with the same,
horrified disdain usually reserved for
cheap scotch and non–Ivy League
educations.
And even though my mother went on
to create a household for us that was as
warm, loving, and laughter-filled as they
come, it took years for me to finally
learn how to form a sentence when
presented with the blood-chilling
phrase, “We need to talk.”
All this is to say that it’s not your
fault that you’re fucked up. It’s your fault
if you stay fucked up, but the foundation
of your fuckedupedness is something
that’s been passed down through
generations of your family, like a coat of