“Where do you think you got it from, Pilar?” My mom is asking me a question that I know the answer to, although what’s really in question here is what does “it” mean? I try not to overthink it, because if by “it” she means my overwhelming sexuality, then, um, yes, I would like to move on from this conversation and not watch a slide show in my mind of my mother superimposed over me in all those grainy, wide eyed memories of all the sex I’ve ever had.
But I did get it from her, didn’t I? Even if I took her “it” and raised it with my circumvented sexual addiction, but maybe this is a family trait. Which I know none of my family members want to think about, as I eke out this bohemian wanna be rhapsody, relishing in small moments the artsiness that my mother probably should not have foisted on me in the name of education and worldliness. But, here I am, with my blog and my booze and that nagging sensation that is also known as the everpresence of a mother’s disapproval.
Okay, mom, you win this round, but next time! Next time, I’ll be right!